Beautiful Relationship

Tags: Romance, Sex, Soft Ryujin, Male Reader

With her nestled against the edge of the tub, I reached for the book I had left on the counter, opening it to where we had left off. It was an old copy of "Anna Karenina," the pages slightly yellowed, the spine well-worn from countless readings.

Ryujin sighed contentedly as I began to read aloud, my voice low, resonating in the quiet intimacy of the bathroom.

"'All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow,'" I read, my fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on my lap. The words seemed to echo in the room, intertwining with the stillness around us. "'In seeking happiness for others, we find it in ourselves.'"

Ryujin tilted her head back slightly, her eyes closed, her body fully relaxed against mine. "I love hearing you read," she whispered

----------------------

The foggy weather clung to my skin like a second layer, a damp embrace that blurred the edges of the world around me as I stepped out of the condo. Each step felt light, almost floating, buoyed by the strange clarity that had settled over me. The condo itself-where I had just experienced something raw, something deeper than anything I'd known-felt miles away already, even though Ryujin's presence was still etched into my senses. Her face buried in a book, she had waved lazily from the large leather couch as I left, a gentle smile on her lips, a silent reassurance that lingered in the back of my mind.

The streets outside were nearly empty, a ghostly contrast to the usual bustling of Seoul. It was the kind of solitude I had long craved, the quiet that comes after the rain when the air smells of wet earth and fresh grass, mingling with the faint, distant scent of exhaust and city life. The kind of quiet where thoughts can breathe, where the world's noise feels muted, and the only sound is the gentle patter of raindrops on pavement. I inhaled deeply, feeling a strange contentment in the cool, misty air-a sensation that was somehow both calming and electric.

Enough of the background setting drivel. My mind snapped back to the task at hand as I drove toward Samsen HQ, the cityscape slipping by in a blur of gray and silver. The receptionists at the front desk were visibly surprised at my unexpected arrival. I saw them exchange glances, a flicker of confusion passing over their faces before they snapped back into their polished smiles. I had been absent from the office for a few days-unusual for me, and certainly enough to stir the quiet currents of office politics that always buzzed beneath the surface. There was always a game being played here, even if you sat at the top.

The days of absence had been deliberate, of course, a move calculated to keep the lesser sharks on their toes, to stoke the fires of intrigue among those who thought they could outmaneuver me. Let them wonder, let them speculate-it kept them busy and distracted. To be honest, the supposed mind games were more of an ego trip than any real threat. These pretenders held barely any power to undermine me. They were nuisances at best, and any one of them could be removed with a single call. The irony was almost amusing. I had the president's number on speed dial, and yet these people acted as if they could orchestrate my downfall with hushed whispers in the hallways.

"Viva la Seoul!" I muttered to myself, a half-smile playing on my lips as I navigated the labyrinthine corridors of corporate life. The place had always fascinated me, with its paradoxes and its hypocrisies, its cutthroat maneuvering, and its strange, almost poetic absurdities. The Nietzschean interns who would debase themselves for a fraction of my hourly wage, desperate for approval or advancement. The older managers, balding and paunchy, somehow managing to crawl up the ladder faster than those who had dedicated themselves to optimal efficiency and health.

Was I evil for thriving in this environment? Was there something fundamentally wrong with finding beauty in these contradictions, in relishing the dance of corporate warfare? The thought amused me more than it should have. Maybe it was the fact that my entire existence was built around these principles, these axioms of survival. Maybe that was why I found it so hard to believe that anyone else could see the world any differently.

But then there was Ryujin, the outlier, the anomaly that challenged everything I thought I knew. She was proof that there was another way, that life didn't have to be a series of calculated moves, that it could be something more-a mix of spontaneity and sincerity, without pretense or strategy. She was the exception to the rule, enough to make me question the very foundations of my beliefs, to make me wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was a different way to play the game.

The danger she posed was undeniable-she could unravel me, expose me to vulnerabilities I hadn't known existed. And yet, the benefits she offered were so much more profound, so much more intrinsic. With her, everything seemed more vivid, more real. The same conversations I'd grown to hate with others-talks of relationships, the future-felt fresh and exciting with her, filled with possibility and promise.

I was so lost in thought that I almost missed the knock at my door, the sharp rap that pulled me back into the present. My new secretary entered without waiting for a response, a young woman with bright eyes and a sharp tongue, one of the few I hadn't hired for her looks or her connections but for her brains and her grit. She had been foisted on me by my so-called equals, who thought I needed someone to keep me in check. They didn't realize that I'd turned her into an asset, someone who could see through the corporate fog almost as well as I could.

"Sir!" she burst out, a hint of panic in her voice. "A rival competitor has just published an article about your recent absence. And they've announced a new home appliance chain aimed directly at Samsen's market."

I felt a slow smile creep across my face. "Good," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Let them make their moves."

It was showtime. The familiar thrill of the game flooded through me, sharpening my senses, focusing my mind. The room seemed to hum with a new energy, the fog outside thickening as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

I liked the unpredictability, the dance of strategy and counter-strategy. I could already imagine the maneuvers that would follow, the ripple effects of this new announcement, the way I would turn this challenge into an opportunity. In the end, it was all just another move on the board, another chance to prove that I was still the master of this game.

But even as I prepared to dive back into the fray, my thoughts drifted back to Ryujin. Her face, her smile, the way she made everything seem a little less bleak, a little less calculated. She was the only unknown variable, the one piece of the puzzle that didn't quite fit. And maybe that was why I couldn't stop thinking about her, even now, with the scent of competition in the air and the thrill of the fight ahead.

"Alright," I said, snapping back to the moment, my voice calm but firm. "Let's see what they've got."

The secretary nodded, turning to leave, but not before casting a quick, curious glance over her shoulder. I didn't mind. Let them wonder. Let them speculate. They had no idea what was coming next. Neither did I, but for once, that uncertainty felt like an advantage.

---

After a whole day's worth of intrigue, the outside felt damper than before with the slight tint of the night on the sky. The executive cars quickly pulling away to their respective areas after Samsen closed in a new historic high on the stock market. Greene's power laws were accurate, accurate in their vagueness, in what constitutes as a power play, a masterful case of deception, and it just so happens that I have internalized it.

Crooked? Maybe.

The drive back home felt even fresher, unburdened by the rush of being down on the market, and burdened by the smell fresh of the damp grass, the damp streets with my windows all the way down. Pedestrians drew their phones, seeking to record the person that seemingly sways the national politics wherever he went.

I promise you this is not an ego play, I really do control the national politics, but the magnitude of power also brings about the same magnitude of the potential to fail. But I'm used to that, my years of training, being down millions, multiple millions have utterly destroyed whatever the fuck part of brain controls my ability to discern risk. People don't know how leveraged I am on the stocks, how leveraged to the fucking tits I am, my entire multi-billion fortune rests on the slight percent nudges of the hour, the minute, the second.

That's what drives me, performance adapts to what you expect and prepare for. Fortunately for me and unfortunately for the public, The government is readily available to bail me out in the billions.

Finally, I pull into the parking lot. I anticipate what I might see when I enter the condo, excited for the possibilities and excited for whatever the singular possibility might be. Will I see my hot girlfriend splayed onto the armchair, with only a tight-knit sweater dress on?

The smell of vanilla wafted in the air as I approached the condo. As I approached, I was about to input the code into the door but it just opened with the touch of my fingers. And I saw Ryujin standing there, in a tasteful pajama set with loafers waiting at the door.

"Did you really read books all day?" I asked.

"Sometimes these days are warranted." And hugged me below my shoulders, it's always a spectacle to feel how small a kpop idol truly is, not that I have experience with them, it's just that Ryujin feels small. I held her waist as I slowly entered, as she slowly moved backwards.

"Did you eat?" She asked, stepping away so that I could take off my shoes.

"No, I just wanted to be home early."

"Aww, you must be tired," Ryujin said softly, stepping back to give me space as I entered. She glanced at the table, where dinner was already laid out, a quiet gesture that spoke volumes about her care.

I looked at the meal, then back at her, a small nod of acknowledgment passing between us. "You didn't have to wait," I said, my voice steady, though the hint of gratitude was unmistakable.

She shrugged slightly, her hands finding their way into her pockets, a gesture of both nonchalance and shyness. "I wanted to. Besides, I wasn't really hungry until you got here."

I raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my lips. "Convenient."

Ryujin met my gaze briefly, then looked away, a subtle flush creeping up her neck. "Yeah, well… I figured you'd be starving after today."

I walked over to the table, pulling out a chair for her. "Sit," I said, more as a gentle command than a request. She hesitated for a split second before complying, her movements almost tentative as she took the seat.

I settled into the chair across from her, the space between us charged with an energy that was still new, still unfolding. There was a comfort in the silence that hung in the air, a kind of unspoken understanding that neither of us felt the need to fill with words.

"Did you make this?" I asked, gesturing to the food, though the answer was already clear.

"Yeah," she replied, her voice soft. "I hope it's okay."

I nodded, picking up my chopsticks. "It's more than okay."

We started eating, the clinking of chopsticks against bowls the only sound for a while. I could feel Ryujin's eyes on me from time to time, as if she was trying to gauge something, but she didn't say anything. I let the quiet stretch on, content to let the moment linger.

Eventually, she broke the silence, her voice low, almost as if she wasn't sure whether to speak. "I've been thinking… about us."

I didn't look up right away, taking a moment to finish my bite before responding. "Yeah?"

She shifted in her seat, her fingers fidgeting slightly with her chopsticks. "I don't want to mess this up."

I placed my chopsticks down, meeting her gaze with a steadiness that I hoped would reassure her. "You're not. We're figuring it out."

Her lips curved into a small, uncertain smile, and she nodded. "I guess I just… I want to be what you need."

I leaned back in my chair, studying her for a moment before replying. "You already are. But this isn't just about what I need."

Ryujin's eyes flickered with something-relief, maybe?-but she didn't say anything, just nodded again, as if she was absorbing my words.

Our dinner ended in satisfaction, and plates were washed under our melodic humming. And the area of our participation changed, onto the couch.

The room was dim, the glow from the TV casting shifting patterns of light and shadow around us. "Twin Peaks" flickered on the screen, the eerie opening score filling the quiet. Ryujin leaned into me, her body fitting neatly against my side, one arm draped over my stomach.

I tightened my hold around her, my hand resting firmly on her waist. She sighed softly, a small, content sound, her eyes fixed on the screen but her body melting further into mine.

"You like this show?" she asked quietly, almost as if testing the waters.

"I do," I replied, my thumb rubbing gentle circles on her hip. "It's got that strange charm"

She chuckled under her breath, a sound that sent a warm hum through me. "Kind of like you, then."

I smirked. "Maybe. But you don't seem to mind."

She shook her head, nestling closer, her hand moving slightly against my shirt. "No… I don't."

I could feel her pulse, a steady beat beneath my palm, her head resting on my shoulder, her breaths syncing with mine. She was so quiet, so small in these moments, her usual boldness softened by the closeness between us.

Without a word, I shifted, pulling her fully into my lap. She let out a surprised breath, looking up at me with wide eyes. "What are you doing?" she asked, though there was no real protest in her tone.

"Getting comfortable," I replied simply, guiding her so her legs draped over mine. "Is that a problem?"

She shook her head, a slight blush creeping up her neck. "No… it's fine."

We settled again, her hands resting lightly on my chest, as if she wasn't sure what to do with them. I covered them with mine, holding her in place. Her cheeks flushed deeper, and I could feel the way her heartbeat quickened just slightly under my touch.

We watched in silence for a while, my fingers tracing idle patterns on her back. Ryujin shifted now and then, as if finding new ways to fold herself into me, her body instinctively seeking more contact.

The sound of Agent Cooper's voice drifted through the room, but I was more aware of her-the soft rise and fall of her breathing, the way her fingers occasionally twitched against my shirt, as if she wanted to say something but wasn't quite sure how.

"Do you think they'll solve the mystery?" she asked at last, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I think it's less about the mystery," I said, my tone low, "and more about how it pulls everyone together… or apart."

Ryujin nodded slowly, her eyes still on mine, her thumb brushing over my hand. "Kind of like us," she murmured, almost absently.

I chuckled softly, leaning down until our foreheads almost touched. "Are you saying I'm a mystery?"

She bit her lip, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Maybe… but one I don't mind trying to solve."

I smiled, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. "Good. I like keeping you guessing."

She laughed, the sound soft and genuine, and then snuggled deeper into my hold, her head resting just under my chin. Her fingers found mine, and she gave a light squeeze, her body relaxing completely against me.

And there, in the flickering light of the TV, we stayed close, without the need for any more words.

A dim warmth spread through my body, a quiet satisfaction as Ryujin nestled into me, her legs folded beneath her. Her soft breaths were steady, rhythmic, her chest rising and falling in a comforting cadence. The episode of "Twin Peaks" ended, but our embrace didn't. The TV hummed faintly, the credits rolling into a quiet, glowing blue, and yet neither of us moved, content to linger in this stillness.

Her fingers traced over my hands, studying them in the dim light, her thumb brushing against the calluses. "How did your hands get so rough? Did you fight every day or something?" she asked, a soft chuckle escaping her lips.

"After training, yeah," I replied, a small smile forming as I remembered. "I used to be part of an underground fight ring. It was fucking crazy… I still don't know why I joined. It was full of middle-aged losers, and we'd just beat each other up, badly, almost every day."

Ryujin's laughter bubbled up, a sound both amused and surprised. "What the hell? Seriously? Was the owner some big 'Fight Club' fan or something?"

"I don't know," I said, shrugging. "But there was this weird nostalgic element to it… getting stitches almost on a daily basis, feeling like I was constantly on the edge."

Her laughter faded into a more thoughtful expression, her brow furrowing slightly as she massaged my hands, now resting on her lap. She slowly turned on my lap, shifting until she was facing me, her gaze searching my face with a mix of amusement and concern. "Gosh. What would you do without me? Look at these scars, and how rough your hands are! How did your face not get nicked?"

I smirked. "Oh, it got nicked. Plenty of times, at first. But a teenager learns pretty quickly among a bunch of 40-year-olds. By the end, no one really wanted to fight me."

Her eyes softened, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she continued to trace the lines of my scars. "Sounds like a mix of ego and insanity," she teased, but there was an underlying tenderness in her tone.

I leaned back, letting her study me, feeling the weight of her gaze on my skin. "Maybe," I admitted. "But it made me who I am, for better or worse."

Ryujin shook her head, still smiling, and then leaned in, pressing her forehead to mine. "You're a little crazy, you know that?"

"Is that a compliment?" I asked, my voice low, teasing.

She laughed softly. "It's an observation. But… yeah, I guess it is. You pretend like you don't need anyone, but here you are, with me, letting me hold you like this."

I felt a warmth spread through my chest, her words sinking in deeper than I'd expected. I tilted her chin up, meeting her eyes. "Maybe you just have a way of breaking through," I said, brushing my thumb over her cheek.

Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she settled closer, her hands resting on my shoulders now, her body melting into mine as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Maybe… or maybe you just needed someone to see you," she whispered, her voice soft but certain.

I didn't reply right away, just let my fingers move to her hair, tangling in the soft strands as I held her close. I felt her relax, her body going pliant against me, and there was a peace in that moment, something that felt unspoken but deeply understood.

A slow movement between each other occurred, and a slow kiss formed out of it all. A passionate, an unendingly lovely kiss, a kiss that could only be shared by two lovers. I reached deeper, my head moving forward deeper into the kiss, trying to get more out of Ryujin, her taste, her beauty. I slowly stood up, with her still on my body, I held her up with my arms around her waist while still sharing a passionate kiss.

How could a girl be this lovely? Holy shit.

I quickly plant her on the leather couch, a black luxury couch too expensive for a single man, but a perfect frame for the most beautiful girl in the world. She laid on the couch, motioning for me to join her, in laying, in loving. The next seconds were a haze, the warmth of a kiss being shared, her soft bosom pressed up against me, The warmth shared by two bodies aggressively pressing each other to get more out of each other.

My left hand went from her waist to her breast, gripping firmly against the soft of her clothes, the soft of her breast. She mewled in my mouth, taking quick breaths trying to continue the kiss as long as possible, unbearably aroused by my body.

I quickly pulled away, she was irritated, I quickly took off my button-up, more like ripping it apart, buttons everywhere. That didn't matter at all, we quickly continued our session, she softly rubbed her hands all over my back as I kissed into her.

Then, clothes flew off each moment, and a kiss shared in each layer, and a mess on the floor. Her creamy-white skin caved at my touch, the slight ripple of her semi-abs visible as I greedily took more of her. Finally, her bra came off, the perfectly pink nipples were visible, and completely rigid. The kiss transitioned as my mouth traced over her body down to her breast.

I sucked lightly, fingering at her other nipple. Her loud moans and body ripples only inspired greater performance, I felt a slight tug when I felt her fingers around my hair and she seemed to be moaning louder.

I nibbled at her nipple, kissed the white skin around the nipple, which compressed at the slightest touch. It was almost heaven, a girl who gave me her virginity, a girl who is witty, smart, and loving.

After enough teasing of her nipples, she began to be more reactive, perhaps signalling that it's turned into pain rather than pleasure. So I stopped, caressing the pads of my fingers along her body, her curves, her identity, all the way down to her thighs where my thumbs hooked on her panties that were damp.

"You must be excited." I teased.

"Ah… please I'm so wet, you kept teasing my nipples you bastar- Ah!" I slipped a finger inside her, interrupting her, amusing myself in her arousal.

I took the finger out, it glistened even in the warm light.

"Open your mouth." I demanded.

She complied, with her mouth open, I inserted the glistening finger inside her, "Tastes good?".

"So Gooth-." She replied with my finger still in her mouth. A slight vibration, a fiercely erotic sign, a sign that she was so stimulated that her body was vibrating as a coping mechanism after realizing other ways of coping with it were futile.

I took out the finger out of her tender, warm mouth, with a trace of saliva still on my finger, I slowly tracked down her body, the shine of her saliva following suit, the rise of her breasts, the drop to her ribs, the softness of her belly no, abdomen, it would be an insult to call it a belly, it was the perfect midriff. The quiver getting more intense as the tip of my finger slowly approaching her pussy.

I pulled off my hands off her body quickly, and hastily set to pull off my belt; suddenly, Ryujin laid her hands on my belt, showing that she wanted to take it off, that she wanted to see my cock entirely of her own volition. Slowly, making sure that whenever her hands were not occupied with taking off my belt and undergarments, she grazed my abdomen with her fingers any chance that she got. She was kneeled on the couch, crouched over, I was kneeled up straight, and she took her time enjoying the rare opportunity to tease me.

She was entirely naked, and I got to see her back, her beautiful back, one that was crafted through sheer divination by the lords above, there was absolutely no other way to achieve that back, the hourglass shape of her waist and the curve of her hip bones, lord almighty.

I traced the lines of her back with my hands as she finally got down my underwear. Whilst I busied myself with her breasts, now that it was hanging, it was even softer, even more beautiful and absolute euphoria to handle.

A firm grasp disrupted my vivid imagination. "Are you gonna keep teasing my breasts, is it that lovely?" she said with a laugh, slightly firmer on the cloth that barely hid my erection. "Is underwear like this even practical? It looks like it's a camp site!" Somehow she found some humor in this situation, most likely embarrassed about giving me fellatio.

Of course, I know the cure. I grasped her hair tightly, the hair that has been diligently grown, perfect to grab tightly and insist on what actions you want. She obliged in the pull, her legs completely folded in obedience, and obliging in the slight pulls and pushes of my hand.

"Too hard?" I asked.

"I don't even know why you have to ask." She replied, with a bright flush in her cheeks, knowing that she likes it and that I know it.

"You're gonna suck my cock, and you'll do it diligently; and you'll get fucked into this couch."

"Ye- Yes.. please Koji." She submitted with speech.

I swiftly pulled out my erection, and I leaned into the railing of the couch, inviting Ryujin over. She moved closer, still kneeling, still crouched, and slowly approached my erection. She breathed deeply, getting closer to my dick, and started to stroke it with her hand. The soft coldness of her hands confirmed my suspicion, she was so nervous that all the heat went to her torso, "you don't have to be so nervous, baby." She smiled at the remark, and immediately took my dick in her mouth.

She learned so quickly, it was unbelievable, what a virtuoso. She sucked on my length, going halfway with an incredible suction. The pleasure was intense, a sensation of sucking was strong, and I would peak too quickly to enjoy her body.

"My muse, aren't you learning a little bit too fast?" I said with a chuckle, gritting my teeth against the pleasure.

She released, still very close to the tip, "it's so delicious that I had no choice but to learn, and it seems it paid off." Yes it has, but of course there's an opposing force every force. Before she could continue sucking me off, I pushed her onto the couch.

"Should I make you cum in one stroke?" I asked, fully intending to do.

"You wish." Scoffing at my threat. "I was a virgin then-"

I quickly placed pressure just at the edge of the pubis bone, then the other hand traced the outer lips of her pink pussy. Her solid determination was nearly broken at that moment, a hand placed on her lower abdomen pressing into her was getting her off so well.

And it was a technique that only got more arousing the more it was used. She was a goddess personified and I was disgracing her by almost getting her to cum with light presses and pressure. The fingers that traced the outer lips of her pussy slowly converged on her clit hood, applying almost a graze over it, each graze getting a sizzling inhale from Ryujin.

"Ah~ fuck, I'm gonna come! I'm gonna come!"

I immediately took off my hands, and I stared at her. "Wha- What are you doing? I was so close." I didn't reply, I swung my left hand against her hip bone, a firm slap, as close as you could get to her ass in missionary.

She yelped, and I covered her mouth with a firm grip, "it would be a disgrace for you cum on my fingers, and even less so without me penetrating you at all." I leaned into her with a hand still on her mouth, leaving enough room for her to breathe through her nose. I was still quite above her to let her see me entering her, she looked down, as I slowly pressed my member at the heat, prodding, then slowly entering. When I saw that she was not looking down and when she was trying to deal with the pleasure, I quickly took the hand off her mouth and pulled her head forward to make her look as I entered inside. Each inch pain-stakingly slow and purposeful, she stared with pleasure ablaze.

"Princess. I am the only one who understands you."

That was it, that was the moment she lost it. I immediately entered to the hilt, then pulled out. She spasmed at the intensity, squirting all over the leather couch, screaming and moaning at the pleasure. "Oh my fucking god!" She placed a hand over her head to recover.

The latter minutes were spent with a more furious kind of love, an intense love.

A manner in which I fucked her, with love and embrace. I held her in missionary position, grasping the nape of her neck, sharing our mouths as I repeatedly and fully drew inside her fully. The motions bringing the deep moans of pleasure out in the form of vibrations in her body, and mewls of her mouth.

She loved giving up control in intercourse, it was something that brought her pleasure to no end. To know that she was not in control of her orgasm nor mine, that any second I could pull away and let her mewl in anticipation, and suffer right under the eclipse of her orgasm. However, she loved it more when we shared our arousal, in this position, she could kiss my shoulder, kiss my jaw, caress my back, and even massage my shoulders. Of course, she engaged in these sorts of affection, she couldn't control it and I could never resist it. The deeper I went, the more her moan hummed against my jaw when she kissed it.

Sometimes I pulled off to maintain eye contact with her, noticing the twists in her eyebrows, the whiskered dimples of her cheeks as she was drawn to climax again. This time though, her legs locked me inside her, she knew that it would take multiple orgasms for her to get me to eclipse, she acknowledged it and was fully intent on it. Of course, the significant height and weight difference didn't allow Ryujin to maintain much control at all. Instead of the leg lock, I swiftly kneeled up while my dick was still inside her, while she stared expectantly.

I seized her legs, right above my shoulders, "Oh not again!" She definitely remembered the first time I did this. Then I lowered myself to kiss her, her legs were now placed next to her ears.

"I feel this is my obligation, to train your flexibility." Still punishing her cunt with my deep strokes inside her

"Oh please-ah! Yo- You just want to fuck my brains out!" She was right.

I still held her legs as the way they were, but I wanted a fuller picture, a picture where I saw Ryujin enjoying herself to the fullest. I observed the strokes, her cunt glossy with her arousal, I wanted her to enjoy it even more.

From then and there, I placed my hand on the place of her pubis bone, compressing the canal that anticipated my strokes, and a slight thumbing on her clit.

One, euphora

Two, amazing

Three, orgasm

She came again, this time she was allowed no movement, my hands acted as braces that held her down, and she vibrated in pleasure.

She tightened even further, her moans became more guttural as the added pleasures of my hands began to feel more like punishment.

I chuckled, she was such an angel. I released my hands, the hands thus landed on the breasts, the warm pliable breasts with very noticeable aroused nipples.

I had been pumping so quickly and hadn't realized that I was getting close, I was enjoying her mewls and moans so much that I realized that I might cum this instant. Despite the fact that I finally bought condoms because I kept cumming inside her, I forgot to use it.

Trying to resist pulling out of Ryujin's pussy was impossible, it wasn't 'almost impossible' it was plain and simply impossible. And Ryujin definitely felt the twitch my cock, "Please Please Cum inside me! Do it inside me~!"

Finally, I pumped into her one two three times and fell onto her as I filled her with my seed.

"I might actually get pregnant at this rate" she chuckled with her hands getting tangled in my hair

"I don't even fucking care anymore" I breathed by her side, ear-to-ear.

"Would you like that? A little Koji running around?" She asked.

"I don't know, what about you?" Genuinely curious about her opinion.

"I think it's cute to see a little Koji running around, a little Koji that has a happier childhood."

"I love you" I kissed her lips.

She murmured something against my lips, most likely "I love you" too.

The warmth of the embrace lingered as we finally moved from the couch. The night had drawn on, but the intimacy between us only grew stronger. Ryujin stood up, her hand slipping into mine, and without a word, she led me towards the bathroom.

The bathroom light flickered on, casting a soft glow across the tiles. The shower was already running, steam curling up and filling the small space with a comforting heat. Ryujin turned to me, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of affection and something deeper. She reached up, gently tugging at my hand.

Soon, the warmth of the steam wrapped around us both.

We stepped into the shower together, the hot water cascading over our bodies, washing away the day. Ryujin reached for the soap, her hands lathering it up before gently running it over my chest. Her touch was soft, methodical, as if she was memorizing every inch of me. I closed my eyes, leaning into the sensation, the warmth of her hands, the soothing pressure as she worked the soap across my skin.

I returned the favor, my hands moving slowly, carefully, over her shoulders, down her back, the water rinsing away the suds in gentle streams. She sighed, a sound of pure contentment, as I massaged the tension from her muscles, taking my time, savoring the closeness.

When she turned to face me, her eyes were soft, almost vulnerable. I cupped her face in my hands, letting the water pour over us, and she leaned into my touch, her own hands resting on my waist. For a moment, we just stood there, water pouring over us, our foreheads touching, our breaths mingling in the steam-filled air.

Finally, I leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, and finally her lips-slow, lingering, full of the unspoken things between us. She kissed me back, her hands moving up to tangle in my wet hair, holding me close.

When the kiss broke, we both smiled, a small, shared moment of understanding. I reached for the shower's knob, turning off the water, the sudden silence almost startling. Ryujin didn't let go, though. Instead, she wrapped herself around me, resting her head on my chest as the last of the water dripped off us.

"I want to take a bath," she murmured, her voice soft, almost shy.

I smiled, pressing another kiss to her damp hair. "Let's do it."

We stepped out of the shower, toweling off quickly before I started the bath, adjusting the temperature until it was just right. Ryujin watched me, her eyes following my every movement, a small smile playing on her lips. Once the tub was filled, she sank into it with a sigh, the hot water enveloping her.

I settled on a chair that directly faced ryujin still with a towel draped over my lap, watching as she leaned back, closing her eyes, her face relaxing completely. The room was filled with the soft sounds of water lapping against her skin, the scent of lavender from the bath salts mixing with the steam.

"Join me?" she asked, opening her eyes just a sliver, looking up at me with a hopeful expression.

"Don't even try" I chuckled at the previous time she asked for me to join her in the bath.

With her nestled against the edge of the tub, I reached for the book I had left on the counter, opening it to where we had left off. It was an old copy of "Anna Karenina," the pages slightly yellowed, the spine well-worn from countless readings.

Ryujin sighed contentedly as I began to read aloud, my voice low, resonating in the quiet intimacy of the bathroom.

"'All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow,'" I read, my fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on my lap. The words seemed to echo in the room, intertwining with the stillness around us. "'In seeking happiness for others, we find it in ourselves.'"

Ryujin tilted her head back slightly, her eyes closed, her body fully relaxed against mine. "I love hearing you read," she whispered, her voice almost drowned out by the water, but I caught it, and it warmed me from the inside out.

I continued reading, my voice steady, letting the words flow through the air, wrapping around us both. "'But every one of these men, straightway from the first minute of their meeting, was seized by an unwonted feeling of respect, as though they had met with something sacred, and in consequence every word and gesture of hers seemed to them more important and significant than they had ever been before.'"

Ryujin's fingers played idly with mine beneath the water, her thumb brushing against my knuckles as she listened. The words from the book mixed with the rhythm of our breathing, with the warmth of the water and the quiet that enveloped us.

As I read on, the story of Anna Karenina unfolding in the soft light, I could feel Ryujin's heartbeat, slow and steady, matching mine. The romance of the scene in the book felt distant compared to the reality of her in my arms, this intimate moment we were sharing.

Eventually, I let the book rest on the edge of the tub, my voice trailing off as I pressed a kiss to her damp shoulder. "You know," I murmured, my lips brushing against her skin, "this might be better than any book."

She turned slightly in the water, looking up at me with a playful smile. "Only might be?"

I chuckled, leaning down to kiss her, slow and deep, letting the warmth of the bath and the softness of her lips consume me. "Definitely better," I corrected softly against her mouth.

Ryujin smiled, a content, sleepy smile, and nuzzled back against my chest. We stayed like that for a while, the water gradually cooling around us, but neither of us was in a hurry to move. The book lay forgotten on the edge of the tub as we simply enjoyed the closeness, the feeling of being utterly connected in this quiet, private world we had created together.

Bedside (Ryujin x M!Reader)

Tags: Soft!Ryujin, Dom M!Reader, Soft Dom/Sub, 4k+, True Love, Lots of Fluff, Lots of Smut

The morning felt like it was wrapped in a golden haze, the kind of light that pours in slowly, spreading warmth over everything it touches. I woke with a start, the sun carefully layered on my covered body, its rays stopping just short of my face. The blanket was warmed by its touch, a soft cocoon that enveloped me and Ryujin. I turned my head to the side, and there she was, her face inches from mine, eyes open wide, studying me with a serene intensity.

Her gaze was almost hypnotic-those magnificent eyes that seemed to capture the morning light, her thick, pink lips parted slightly in a silent question, and a delicate button nose that added a youthful charm to her sharp intellect. She was stunning in a way that was almost surreal, like a dream that had somehow crossed into reality.

She lifted a single finger and traced a circle on my exposed collarbone with her long, delicate fingernail, the sensation sending a shiver down my spine. "Good morning, babe," she whispered, leaning in to press a gentle kiss on my bicep, her lips soft and warm against my skin. Her voice had a playful lilt to it, a mix of affection and mischief.

"What do you want to eat?" she asked, her voice a low murmur that carried a sweet intimacy.

I stretched slightly, my arm still heavy with sleep, but my mind was already waking up, tuned into her presence. "Anything you make, babe," I replied, my hand moving to her head, fingers weaving through her hair, gently patting her. I shifted, offering my arm as a pillow, inviting her to come closer.

Ryujin grinned, a playful glint in her eyes, as she rested her head on my arm. "What if your blood circulation stops?" she teased, nuzzling into my arm, her breath warm against my skin.

"I'll tolerate it," I whispered back, my thumb brushing lightly against her scalp, savoring the soft texture of her hair. Her fingers began to inch the blanket lower, tracing slow, deliberate patterns across my chest, her touch firm yet gentle, igniting little sparks wherever her skin met mine.

"Hey, Koji?" she asked again, this time her voice carrying a note of insistence, like a question that had been hanging in the air.

I blinked, still shaking off the last remnants of sleep. "What's up?" I mumbled, my voice groggy but curious.

"Do you want to have dinner with the group?" she asked, her fingers pausing for a moment on my chest, as if waiting for my answer.

"Huh?" I replied, a bit more alert now, my brow furrowing slightly. "Why would you invite me to that?"

Ryujin's smile didn't waver; instead, it widened, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "I don't know, I want to introduce you to the other members," she said, her hands stilling, her palms pressing warmly against my skin. The touch felt more intense, like her words had given it a new weight.

"Wouldn't Yeji just tell everyone anyway?" I countered, my tone amused, knowing how easily news traveled in their circle.

"They probably don't even believe her," Ryujin replied, laughing softly. "She's always getting pranked and believes things so easily." I could picture Yeji, her bright eyes wide with excitement, trying to convince everyone, the thought almost hysterical.

Ryujin shifted closer, her breath warm against my neck, her body fitting perfectly against mine like she had always belonged there. Her hand moved again, this time more slowly, tracing the lines of my muscles with deliberate precision, her fingertips a light dance across my skin. I felt her lips press against my shoulder, a soft, lingering kiss that seemed to convey a hundred unspoken words.

I watched her, the way her face softened as she nuzzled into me, the way her body seemed to melt into mine, and I felt that familiar ache in my chest, that overwhelming need to hold her closer, to feel her warmth against me. She was everything I never knew I needed, a perfect paradox of strength and softness, of intelligence and playfulness. I could feel her heartbeat against mine, a steady, comforting rhythm that seemed to sync perfectly with my own.

"Alright," I said finally, my voice low, my hand moving to cup her cheek, brushing a thumb along her jawline. "I'll go, but only because you asked."

Her eyes lit up with a mix of surprise and delight, and she kissed my cheek, quick and soft. "Good. It'll be fun, I promise."

She started to pull away, but I caught her wrist, pulling her back to me. "Not so fast," I murmured, my lips finding hers in a slow, deep kiss. She responded immediately, her body pressing closer, her hands moving to my shoulders, gripping me tightly.

When we finally pulled apart, we were both breathing heavily, our foreheads resting against each other. "Okay, okay," she laughed, breathless but happy. "You win. Breakfast first."

She moved back, moving off the bed with her knees, her hair cascading around her beautiful face. But I couldn't resist anymore, I grabbed hold of her ankle, and I pulled her back in.

She yelped in surprise, looking at me with a questioning look.

"Let's do it." I asked, more of a demand than anything.

"Why are you treating me like I have 10 years of experience, I'm basically sore everyday because of your antics!" She scolded me, mixed with a breaching laughter that eventually took over her irritation.

"How could I resist? Baby. You. Drive. Me. Fucking. Crazy." Enunciating every word into her face. She stared with all her resolve, which was about a second before she looked away, her wide-eyed pupils frantically moving around. She didn't have any experience, true. It was her little world I breached with years of experience. Yet, she complimented me so well, so profoundly, her amateur blowjobs, the highlight of my years; the uneven hip movement, the cause of the fire in my loins; her little trembling lips as she climaxed, the afterburn of my lustful passion.

Her face relaxed into acceptance, into affection, she was mine. Slowly our lips grazed, the misty hot breaths enveloping portions of our face. The sweet heat of our interactions grew; my erection was already poking into her navel, my hands already searching, finding, caressing the unbelievable curves of her hips, a genuine hourglass, the most perfect, soft hourglass. Each tight and desperate grip on her hips confirmed one oxymoron after another, her ass like a firm dough, elastic to the touch, warm to the embrace; there was no grip, no swell caress that could satisfy me of her ass, it was perfection personified.

"You like that?" As I caressed her, the side of abdomen, the soft skin underneath her breasts.

"Yes…" she breathed a soft moan against my grip.

I slowly enveloped her neck with my other hand, still lapping at her welcome and moist lips, not to choke her out, but to show her that I have ownership over her, that I was the sole owner.

"Who owns you?" I demanded.

She was silent, I tightened the grip, not on her neck, but the skin surrounding her, I would never, never ever hurt her.

I pushed my erection against her covered wet cunt, a loud "mmph!" sounded, vibrated, against my lips, it was all a sopping mess. It was an extraordinary affair, to the point where I realized the grip on her skin was too much, the imprint of my grip left white surrounded by the red recirculation.

"Who owns you!?" I growled against her face, the separation of our kiss caused by my penultimate inquiry, our cheeks stuck together, slick with sweat, slick with the condensation of love.

"You own me! You… own… me…" she whispered, softly clawing her nails on my nape, thoroughly attached to the side of my face. The seductive breath of her declaration on my ears, the faint waves that serenaded the curves of my ears, riled me up so hard, so fucking hard.

"Yes I do, I own you." I declared, this time, I pulled my face off, no matter how pleasing the heat shared with our bodies was. There was another award, hiding behind her white panties, the condensed wetness at her entrance, begging for reprieve. Slowly I hooked the fabric covering her heat, a wonderful light pink stared back, slick and glossy with arousal, it begged for the relief that I promised, that I held over her like a diamond on a stick.

"Please", she said, mouthing the back of her finger, searching for anything to calm her arousal.

I was leading her on, it was euphoric, watching a 'femme fatale' writhe under you, begging for reprieve. Slowly and steadily, I climbed on her again, but with a finger grazing, caressing the heat, her pussy, that Ryujin begged to control, it was never enough, of course, it was grazes-caresses that only lead her on more. She was writhing, literally, the striations of her faint abs moved in tandem with the absolute authority she had over her waist. It was surreal. The teasing continued, this time, though, I planted my hand on her body, spreading the essence over her body, the essence that her pussy spread over my hand through just gentle grazes, a streak of a bright sheen across her abdomen, it was divine, absolutely virile.

She breathed heavily, the ceased teasing seemed to give her a moment of peace of mind, her chest heaved in tandem with wavy bounces of her soft beautiful breasts.

"Do you want this cock?" I asked vulgarly. Gripping her legs, waiting for a response, a faint sound was heard, only the submissive tone could be interpreted.

"What was that?" I chimed in, with my head turned, waiting for a more clear sentence.

She quickly grabbed the nape of my neck, pulling herself up with both of her arms. I stumped both of my arms to resist letting both of us fall.

She pulled me in deeper, my ear still turned slightly towards her words: "Daddy, fuck this pussy until I can't walk anymore," a chill moan and a vibration exited her body, "fuck me until I can't think of anything else, paint my pussy in your cum, fuck me until my ass is red with love." Each sentence weakened the stumped arms, each sentence lowering her onto the bed in tandem with me.

This time, I swiped the condom, making sure that I don't make the same mistake for the fifth time. This time, I was ready, a full box of condoms, a canvas to paint with my essence: her body. She wrapped her fingers around my hair whilst she kissed all over my face, "I can't wait, daddy…"

I didn't even care if the condom was properly on my dick, all I wanted to do was pummel her with my cock, I wanted her sopping wet mess gumming on my cock for hours straight, perhaps overambitious, but anything less with a goddess like her would be tantamount to self-sabotage to the highest degree.

In the haze of the rapid acceleration into intercourse, many significant things were forgotten. One of them is that Ryujin was still sore from our combined passions these past days, second, that I was 10 inches taller, third, that I could lift 40kg quite easily with one hand. This ignorance of my brute strength combined into a display of absolute inequality. With an arm wrapped around her waist, I picked her up; the other arm explored her soft curves, the glowing creamy skin softer than a water balloon. If my dick was trouble for women 10 inches taller than her, then most definitely would be an incomprehensible hurdle for Ryujin, I felt bad, but really, I wasn't going to stop, not a fucking chance.

When I picked her up, the position naturally assumed a foreshadowing penetration, I kneeled with my dick in full mast, and the crevices between her thighs and ass slotted onto my thighs, her pussy sliding down slowly onto my cock, her wet pussy perfectly aligned for a most grievous exchange of lust.

"You want it?" I swiped some hairs stuck to her forehead, savoring her knotted face of arousal, of a needy lust.

"Yes.. I want it so bad, I'll do anything, please, just fuck me out of my mind…" Her face snapped closer to my face, breathing slowly against my face, waiting for the ecstatic relief of penetration.

I wasn't stolid in my determination to tease her any further, and feared the chance that her mind could break any second. And so, slowly, I entered her, the reverberating sound of her sopping cunt squelching against my cock was impossible to miss. She breathed in shorter intervals, desperate waves of air caressed my face, she was moaning noticeably louder against my face, still stolid in her determination to stare at my face, making sure that I felt the breaths of arousal on my face, the fervor in her doe-eyes begging for more, strands of saliva from our wet kisses still connecting our lips in faith.

Each time we have sex, five times so far, it's electric, not in the way that it's new; of course it's new, rather, it's the pure lust-pure passion that wrings out of our bodies uncontrollably, the smothered flames of lust nudging us into a most perfect arrangement. It's something my former secretaries couldn't wring out, former daughters of chaebols irritated by my disinterest; only the virgin lust of Ryujin, the loving embrace, brought my flames out.

And she knows, in her irritated face at hearing about my 'experience', she knows that she alone was the only one, to make me growl in her ear in lust, slap her ass in desperation, caress the smooth skin of her god-given sculpted skin, and cuddle with for days.

And so the rapid rumination of our past reflections apexed when I finally buried my cock to the hilt inside her, a final spine-bending moan wrung out of her, the transition into a primal, adrenal, lustful love completed. Swiftly, I pulled her up, her wet mess collecting at the base of my cock, and wet squelches with loud moans synchronized as I sped up, skewering her sopping cunt on my cock.

Her moans were fast, uneven, a rhythm that could never be replicated in any other conditions. Quick and searing 'Ah!s' serenaded my ears, only motivating my body to push further, the blood flowing quicker through my body, helping me plunder her insides

"Hngh-I'm gon-I'm gonna-cumm~!" Still seated on my lap, her head fell back, almost spine-bending, her mouth wrenched open with a deep moan exiting her body, tremors shook out her orgasm for the shortest, lengthiest 10 seconds: short in that I wished I could fuck her through the orgasm for longer, lengthy in that her pussy pulsated, varying degrees of tightness that provided wonderful relief, almost making me pulse my essence into the condom, wasting a perfect opportunity to paint her body.

Speeding up against her orgasm didn't help the matter, she moaned louder, I thought she had already lost the facade of indifference, but her moans were a whole order of magnitude louder.

"Oh my god-fuck me until I can't walk-carry me to the dinner!" Her mind was loose, anything that went through her head exited out her mouth… adorable.

Oh shit.

I forgot we had a dinner to attend to.

The sudden realization led to a burst of laughter.

Ryujin brought her head back, confused at what I was laughing at, and asked "what happened?"

"Nothing" I replied

"Tell me!" she nagged, with a higher pitch from the afterglow of her orgasm.

"I think you forget that I'm buried inside you." I planted her onto the bed, missionary style, and pumped-"Ah!" her moan enthusiastically approved the move.

The wet slaps of our skin colliding with each other was wonderful. I pulled her legs up, each leg next to my ears, her thick thighs reverberating the wet slaps even more. We had no sense of time, everything outside our depth of field didn't matter. Hundreds of hours wasted trying to be mindful, to be present, when I could just make Ryujin squirt on my cock in order to be present, in this moment, I realized my rudimentary instincts.

"Turn around" I demanded, in a tone befit to threaten.

"Ah~~Huh? What did you say?" She asked, a puzzled expression, one muddled with a pleasured expression.

I made sure she listened this time. I approached her head, then her ear, made sure my mouth was close to her ear. Slowly I demanded: "Turn around, point your ass to the sky, you slut…" I swear I could feel her nipple become harder whilst I was pinching it.

She submissively turned around, listening to my demands, pointing her beautiful ass to the sky, with her back arched, accentuating her beautiful bare back, the wideness of her hips, the slimness of her body.

I gripped her waist tightly, everytime I have sex with her, I try to wrap my fingers around her waist. It's always so close, almost touching together. You may ask why I do it. I do it because I can.

"Look at my hands, they're around your waist, my fingers are almost touching. Look at you squirm on my dick, I can hold you still with one hand around your waist and you're unable to move, two hands and I own you." I teased into her ear, pausing extra long every sentence, every pause, I had control, and she loved it.

"Let's see how I squirm under you." she said teasingly, biting her index finger as she rested her head against the bed, her face shaped by her beautiful grin, her back arched, reflexing momentarily when laughing.

Honestly, this is the greatest moment of my life, not the billions I made, not the honorary awards I won, it was her, the most beautiful person in the world, that provided me the greatest joy. She was covered in the beautiful sunlight, bent over, the white blanket only accentuating her beauty, her dark hair misshapen across the bed cover. She was bent over, her ass subtly waving at me, waiting for reprieve, waiting for her fire to be put out by my fire, to be dominated in my flames of passion.

And so, I gripped her firm ass cheeks, it was like memory foam, yet softer, yet firmer. I need not explain, she was a polarizing figure, the most paradoxical woman, a goddess. I positioned my tip on her moist lips. In my periphery, I saw her hands adorably clench the blanket, readying herself for the discrepancies in which we extricated our passions.

Yet and so, yet and so. Our sex was in stages, mentally, I dive deeper and deeper into my latent rudimentary mind, one that millenniums of humanity have tried to hard to de-evolve, and yet, she brings it out so easily, in her submissiveness, in her beauty, she knows it not, but she has greater control of me than I do over her. The last stage of the bloom of my caveman mind, an appendix that suddenly took control of the entire body. The soft sounds her pussy made as my dick caved her in prodded me on forth. Each prod a little closer to kissing the end of her cerix, each prod forcing me deeper into a relentless passion.

The absolute serenity of the setting forgotten, the present, the future, the past and what may be, what could be, all forgotten in the haze of the soft wet slaps of our loins. Her breathy moans against the pillow, my strong thrusts that clapped out wet sounds worthy of some of the most obscene sounds you can hear. Her hips moved stealthily, the separation of mind and body apparent for Ryujin, her mind was empty, her eyes retreated back into her head in pleasure, yet her body moved so steadily, her body implored for more, her ass was turning pink from the salivating passion of our sex.

I took peeks anytime I could, staring at her lovely sex gripping on my cock, running trails of her arousal, a bright sheen even under a muted sunlight covering us.

"Ah! Ah~~ please, go slower."

That warranted a loud slap.

"Owww~!" she screamed into the bed, again, not bringing any resistance.

"You'll take what I give, you needy slut." I hooked my hand around her throat softly, naturally assuming ownership over her, I felt her soft, creamy back on my chest as I caved in her deeper, my entire lower half was solely dedicated to pleasure, my top half perhaps more sensibly pushed for ownership.

Her hot means grew more rampant, shorter, more intense, she approached her orgasm so beautifully, so poetically, her face knotted in pleasure so beautifully, how could I ever give her the justice she is due?

The wet slaps grew louder, because I approached my climax, because I wanted to see her ass deform with the inertia I put her through; skewering her on my cock, her ass slapping against my hips.

"Ungh~ Un~ Uuuuunnnghhhh~~!" a lengthy moan escaped her body as she climaxed, a warmer wetness covering my cock as I continually skewered her, pummeled her.

Her arms shivered in pleasure, yet I fucked her deeper, holding down her wrists into the bed. Her arms instinctually begged to be released, begging to shiver, shiver to relieve the pressure of her orgasm, but I'll make sure that she couldn't walk, make sure this bed is wet with her overstimulation.

I fucked her relentlessly, still making sure to take care of her, softly caressing her body. I began to slow down, the strokes getting slower, I was getting so close, so close.

"Cum on my pussy… Paint me with your seed…"

Those four words pushed me into overdrive, throwing her over, pointing my sheathed cock, dangerously close to her pussy.

Every muscle in my body was tight, I didn't care if I hurt my dick when I fisted it, I cared about painting Ryujin, her beautiful body in my seed. Sprays went out, her eyes grew larger and larger after each rope of semen covered her lower half.

I felt like I was almost in a gridlock, every muscle tensed in determination, in pleasure, and slowly my body fell onto Ryujin softly as the shock of sudden relief poisoned my trance. Her arms were open with a warm embrace, hugging me, rubbing her lower body to smear her stickiness onto me.

"Yo-" About to scold her, when she kissed me, deep and passionate, loving and tense.

"Let's go shower" she whispered, with a lovely doe-eyed stare, her arms still wrenching me toward her face.

Momentous Entropy (Yujin x Male Reader)

Yujin x Male Reader

Warning: Smut, 7k+ words

The door accelerated open, showing a peek of a small dorm. Yujin's head popped out from the door's side, her face entirely shaped by a beautiful smile- eyes morphed into two crescent moons facing downwards.

Despite her giggling shyness, she stopped hiding behind the door. She welcomed me in, still with a brilliant smile, "Welcome Professor Eunwoo! Welcome to my dorm."

"I know it's small compared to your penthouse or whatever you were talking about with your coworkers, but it's great for deep, focused work." She snuck in the stalker-level information in between two welcoming remarks.

"Thanks for welcoming me here.. Wait.. What?" I only caught the intrusion mid-sentence.

She knew I heard her-word for word. It was mutualistic to not ruin the moment with heedless questions in the specifics, we'd forgotten whatever we talked about a moment ago; rather, focusing on each other's faces.

Of course, I would never let her know. It's an apprenticeship after all, I'd be brought down with all the academic reputation I have if I even considered anything remotely intimate.

As I entered her dorm, I noticed something unusual. She wore a formal skirt with a white shirt and even her hair seemed to have been carefully molded for a grueling amount of time. Why did she dress up so vibrantly even though all she wore outside were casual clothes? Of course, I would never look her up and down, that would be a grave mistake, my peripheral vision was enough, my imagination did the rest.

I looked away immediately when my imagination went onto a wholly inappropriate tangent, instead I appreciated the clean place, clean of a single speck, the wallpaper matted with a freshness that couldn't be faked with a single day of cleaning; the nice smell loomed over the place, something flowery, something inherently feminine, I was beginning to feel out of place.

There's something poetic about a beautiful person being a beautiful human being as well, though I used two synonyms to describe something inherently different, I'm sure you get what I'm saying. She was good-looking, diligent, smart, clean, the list goes on and on. Sometimes attractive people have some of the most vapid, vanitous, vain lives; sometimes, it's refreshing to see someone just so contrary to that common belief.

I was walking slowly while she went to her room to set up, I paced my steps to not seem awkward by standing too still or pacing around her entire dorm.

She came out of the door, her eyes were not morphed by a smile, rather two large pupils akin to a labrador stared straight at me.

Some people's stares immediately make you uncomfortable, angry even, their voided personality that can only be filled with continued staring. Yujin was rather supplemented by the stare, her intense rich inner-life always apparent, her natural charisma exuding throughout.

The thought was broken when Yujin said, "Mr. Eunwoo, before we get started, I know you forget some of the essential parts of life, like breakfast." She swiftly went to the countertop, opening some cupboard and pulling out an already-prepared breakfast.

"Why do you have a full meal in the cupboard?" I was completely stumped, there is never anything consistent with Yujin.

"I don't know, just in case, you know, if you tried to stop me from serving you breakfast."

"Why do you want to serve me breakfast in the first place? This is inappropriate. Wholly."

"Please!~ Just try it!" Her eyes glistened, displaying how determined she was to get me to taste it."

I obliged her for once. The breakfast was great, it was just too foreign, everything was opposite of what I've lived on; familiarity lied in the dusty libraries, the cramped, yet cozy study rooms, the decrepit dorms. Yet, I've gotten too successful, my quality as an academic has deteriorated too quickly, the distracting throes of fame, money, power however unattractive were always pushed onto me by those I used to hold close. I've resented success for however long I've held it, never has it ever contributed to my learning.

Yet, could this be an aspect of success? An attractive young lady, serving breakfast, serving a jet black coffee with enough caffeine to sedate rather than stimulate. Hold on, how does she-

"How do you know my coffee preference?" I asked, again, alarmed.

"That's-um, I don't know, based on my deduction, you know, like your disheveled appearance, I just assumed you lived off of caffeine." A smile formed again, this time, a smile of victory over me, a rare enough event for a celebration.

"You'd be right." Slightly, I scoffed at her remark, gladly sipping the bitter coffee.

Just like that, she already made me feel welcome, warmed up to the most foreign of places.

How could she do that? Is it on purpose? I can't just ignore the influence she has over me, even if she is a student and I, a professor. I've always fought, fought and fought for everything, everything; the simplest of things failed at least a dozen times. Do you understand the disparity of it all? From failing at least a hundred times to now, an empathetic kindness, a warm smile greeting me regularly. I'm aware the description is akin to describing a drug, an addiction, I'm completely aware of it, and I'm desperate. Desperate for this continued exchange, and that's why I willingly, so perpendicularly of my nature, succumb.

When I snap back to reality, the calm environment filled my sensory world. The white walls are furnished with small plants attached to the wall. I looked back at the kitchen, to check if Yujin was still there-she had planted her elbows on the countertop that I was sitting at, on the other side, her chin held up by her two fists, her cheeks were slightly squished and she was staring directly into my eyes.

"What're you doing?" I ask.

"Nothing. You were so focused on that wall, I just thought it'd be interesting to stare at you." That's right, she's also adept at mocking.

"Alright. Alright you brat, let's get on with it. Where did we leave off last time?"

"Something about an assessment for me to continue being your apprentice."

"Right. Right, I remember."

"You don't even carry around notes? For your 'apprentice'?"

"Don't need to"

"Ok, well, follow me, you're gonna have to sit cross-legged on the floor."

"Fine by me, lead the way."

"Tired or sitting on gold-plated chairs, Mr. Eunwoooo?" Though her teasing was getting a little obnoxious, maybe the first-time visit to her dorm has her more anxious.

I scoffed at the reply, and followed to sit next to her on the coffee table, with enough distance as to make our apprenticeship obvious.

As do all our sessions, it starts cold, detached, at least compared to the end. Near the end, it becomes a warm haze, a studious discourse turns into something enjoyable, something that genuinely complements your life beneficially.

That's also a reason why I continue to speak to Yujin. These unforeseen, unconsidered degrees of freedom had gone out of control, and inevitably, the attachment I had to being an academic was on its last string, its last stitch.

Only a fixation, a continued mutualistic companionship with Yujin has seemed to crutch my skill. And, I'm willing to go against all my morals to continue it.

It can be easily inferred that I'd let Yujin pass with flying colors to be my apprentice. Hiding it, though, is an entirely different story that I'd have to consider deeply through the assessment.

Of course, there's always an optimism to expect in the radius of Yujin, the soft carpet, the flimsy coffee table.

Despite this, the assessment was rough, she was missing questions on purpose, and I couldn't call her out for it because I was purposely trying to modify it in a way that she was always somewhat correct; in academia, this was enough, more than enough, even ground-breaking. But, this wasn't even close to enough for Yujin, she was already suspicious of my bullshittery and in the 5th question, a free-response that I'd modified. She frowned deeply, her eyes glistened in a sort of sadness.

She spoke with disappointment, mostly with herself, "Why are you trying to make me pass? It's obvious that the answers that I have are completely wrong, I can tell in the glint of your eyes."

In order to trick Yujin, I'd have to have a near perfect system-a small gear falling out was all it took for Yujin to catch it.

"Before you freak out, these are questions for my PHD students, you're a freshman, of course I'd have to modify it."

"But why are you teaching me, an undergrad, instead of your usual PHD students?"

"Huh?" I was stumped, she was as intelligent as a fox.

Her eyes were melancholic, dark with a sort of sadness, disappointment.

"Why do you teach me?" She added on, then continued, "all your students did nearly the same thing as I did to gain some sort of favor, perhaps I tried slightly harder. I guess I argued with you a little more, challenged your authority, but anyone that did that was swiftly punished by you. I guess I was more insistent to be taught but you shoved off anyone that did that, except me. Why me? You're not doing it for the money, you have plenty of it and I don't have any. This doesn't progress your career as well, you're teaching a freshman about something that's so ingrained that you don't need notes for it." Slowly her deduction processed what she was saying, and she was getting dangerously close to the answer.

I'd have to go on a tangent to another reason.

"I don't know, maybe that you're particularly bright, and I mean it, I know you feel like an idiot sometimes; it'll never be as bad as how I felt it, god, if I was half as smart as you are when I was a freshman, I might've found the philosopher's stone by now."

"You're so bad at giving compliments." She laughed into her forearms that went to wipe her not-yet flowing tears.

"I mean it." I replied quickly.

"No you don't"

"If I tried to do an apprenticeship with my freshman self I'd be on death row the second day."

It seemed to brighten the mood, she laughed harder, and.... and cried harder into her knees.

Confused by the contradiction of her actions, I just looked away, trying to offer some measure of comfort by just being present.

"I'm sorry, when I sta-start crying I just can't stop."

Even when she's crying, a torrent of emotions pouring out, I don't feel uncomfortable.

"I'm here, Yujin, I'll wait."

"Thank you, Mr. Eunwoo-hick-it's not your fault, I just feel extra emotional these days…"

Everytime she tried to continue with the assessment, her tears seemed to continue flowing, albeit a little slower.

"Hold my hand Mr. Eunwoo."

"What?"

She sniffled, "Just hold it, it'll help me stop crying."

"Alright, alright." I said as calmly as possible, not saying anymore, grasping her hand tightly.

She was sniffling-not crying-beside me, the distance that we had had closed a little. To say this was a foreign experience was an understatement, a relevant example would be to compare it to would be: a cat in zero gravity, I'd recommend watching some videos of it.

Yet I didn't feel any reflexive reaction to this novel experience, I only held harder and felt ever-present in the experience

Suddenly, she whimpered, her hand reflexively moved.

"Ow, sorry, I'm not yet used to the tight grip." She softly said.

"I'm so sorry."

"No, no, I like it, continue." Her head finally seemed to release from her damp forearms, her eyes were slightly red.

As I grasped her hand to a firm level, she put her head on the couch seat, her hair slightly splaying out, her eyes looking at the ceiling.

She whispered, "I know you like me."

"I-" A flourish of heat went straight to my face, everything seemed to be burning down today.

"I like you too." She continued.

"Please, think about what you're saying." I sputtered out, trying to adjust her projected advance.

"I can't hide it anymore, I just can't. I'm delicate, I have my heart on my sleeve… but I've never been so sure of it-nothing else has ever made me feel this way: no friend, no family member, no passion. You can continue saying that I'm naive, that it's my first time, that it'll pass…" Her words start becoming a jumble, as if all that she wanted to get out in a short manner wasn't enough, as if all that crying was because of what she had to say.

She continued, "I know you're a professional, that no matter what I say, you'll decline, even if you liked me. I had to cry because of it, not because I was getting things wrong, I could care less about that… It was the fact that I can no longer handle admiring you from afar, I had to vocalize my appreciation, even if it was all for naught."

After a brief silence, she continued, "I just had to get this off my chest, even if you despise me now, even if you run away now."

She looked away, expecting me to walk away while giving her a stare of pure hatred.

She was still looking at the ceiling, trying to prevent more tears from flowing down. I leaned my head back on the couch seat and looked at the ceiling.

"I love you." I finally said, shaky with a risky determination.

"What?"

"I love you."

Her hand gripped tightly, her hands were noticeably shaking.

"What now?" She stuttered out.

"I don't fucking know." I sighed-sighing deeper than I've ever sighed-I also felt an immense pressure release from something grabbing me from within.

"Why don't we go ahead with the assessment?"

"After all that?"

"Yeah, I mean I feel like a huge burden has been lifted, I just wanna see if I perform better."

"Alright, if that's what you want." I pulled my head from the couch seat, and sat-facing her.

After a lengthy discourse, one that stretched for more than an hour judging by how we both had to correct our posture at least a dozen times. And, within that discourse, Yujin was infallible, every question was answered with lengthy consideration with the nuance, the specificity, the word choice.

Near the end, it went something like this: "Foucault's theory states that the evolving system of penal systems aligns, or in parallel, with everything around us. Before, in medieval ages, violent spectacles of blood and gore were prioritized as punishment, no additional consideration for the esotericism within. Whereas, now, the spectacle of violence is wholly shunned and penal systems focus on shaping the soul, rehabilitating the mind. However, the application of this idea has been rather controversial, and it could be explained with the idea of the panopticon: with the growing concern of shaping the mind, which is almost like a black box, penal systems have a growing habit of surveilling more and more."

Yujin stared at me for some sort of confirmation.

"And?" I waited expectantly.

"And, this panopticon can be applied to anything, schools, hospitals, even changing cultural norms."

"Wow, I have to say, how much did you prepare prior to this?"

"Prior to this? A lot, a lot of work." Her voice was confident, a far cry from her whimpering only a moment ago.

"How do you not sleep in my lectures considering the fact that this material is so much more advanced than the class you take?"

"I can just stare at you." Her head was getting closer-I didn't care. In the beginning of the assessment, we were separated by plenty of space-enough to clearly show it was a professional exchange. By the end, we were shoulder-to-shoulder, side-by-side, speaking cordially, even despite our physical contact.

"Awfully bold for someone who cried in front of her professor for like half an hour straight."

"Ugh! Don't remind me." Her face cringed.

I bit my lip, looking down-the mood was serene, it's just that I keep getting reminded that I'm willingly participating in a mutual seduction between professor and student.

Fuck all of it.

I pulled my hand out of her hand-before she could demand that I return my hand-I wrapped my arm around her upper back, with my hand wrapping at the end of her shoulder.

Her posture straightened during the process, of course the forbidden path was still on her mind, still latent and not yet brought to fruition. But she quickly adapted, she looked to her side, at me, smiling warmly.

"It's so amazing. How many hints have I had to give out?"

"Don't act like you manipulated me to do this."

"How else would the great Eunwoo betray his values? Just a wisp in the wind?"

"You brat, don't forget my honorifics."

"What? I couldn't hear you… Eunwoo."

I quickly pull her in, with my hand shielding the back of her head before I pushed her onto the floor, a soft tuft sound. I was on top of her, between the couch and coffee table, with her legs locked between mine.

Her doe eyes were on full display, her large pupils were somehow dwarfed by her eyelids which opened wider, the whites of her eyes under and above the pupil visible. She was shocked, taboo aside, it's likely she's never even experienced something like this.

"Can I kiss you?" Four words. These four words were all that I could think of, fantasize about for these past months. She'd accept of course, they all did-in the past. Still, there's an immeasurable tension, an uncertainty without even weighing in the consensual agreement.

Perhaps some part of the tension was the taboo, that a professor was about to ruin the makeup of a freshman; smudge her lipstick, suck her lips until they were swollen; the condensation of love-making staining, blending in the carefully sculpted makeup with her natural beauty.

I didn't hear the agreement, in part due to the fact that Yujin herself brought her head up to kiss me. Unfortunately, some care was forgotten, the way I had to grab Yujin's head led to a soft collapse onto the carpet, her head making a soft thump, our teeth clicking from the force. A collaborative soft chuckle escaped through the smallest of air leaks between our lips-a testament to our dedication to continue kissing, then it was airtight again, her soft lips glided over mine, her taste so feminine, so ephemeral.

It was obvious she was chaste, perhaps even 'unclaimed', her virginal lips were erratic, confused, yet so fucking shamelessly hot. Her low moans vibrated more in my mouth, goading me further, to enter deeper into her soft, welcoming mouth.

Slowly, steadily, our tongues entwined, the kiss was less air tight to allow for a more dynamic, sensual french kiss. Her mouth was begging, I was obliging, there was never a fairer exchange, as if her mouth was made for mine, and hers for mine.

Suddenly, she managed to push me over, until I was face-up, staring into Yujin's eyes. This was the first time our eyes met during the makeout session, there wasn't a single word that could explain what we needed to do; besides, our glazed eyes, slick with lust, spoke more than a one-dimensional tool like language. A small chuckle escaped our lips when our lips met in the middle, her head positioning lower, my head higher in the air, until my goading hands, entwined in her angelic soft hair pulled her head down. Our lips slotted in like perpendicular lines, no matter how awkward it felt, it just felt right, as if it were the most lustful way of expressing our unbridled affectations.

My hands explored her clothed body, exploring the beauty on me-who is restlessly, yet in a fierce, virginal way exploring every inch of my mouth-her beautiful curves were soft, pliant, firm, any press had an opposing force-an illegally soft opposing force. She was an angel-an angel on top of me, unaware of how much I wanted to ruin her.

"You're going to regret it." I say, in between wet kisses on Yujin's lips. "This is the only thing I've been sure of." Yujin replied, her voice husky with a sort of mindlessness that only the kiss could've caused. I reply, scaldingly, "I'm going to fucking ruin you." Still trying to warn her, of course, there was a mind and body separation. I was completely, utterly, under the seduction of Yujin, no matter how much I warned her. We both knew, that I wouldn't hesitate to fuck her all over the dorm-not even for a millisecond. "Please, huff, that's all I've ever wanted, all I could think ever about… to be by your side through it all." She pressed another kiss, a brief one, "The messy way you keep your desk, and how happy I am to organize it, how obliging I am. You've seduced me without knowing, before you ever even thought about me I've imagined millions of scenarios with you by my side." Another kiss, a light peck, "Imagine the pride I felt when I found you left your suitcase by the chair in the library, to serve you measurably. It was just ordinary for you, but, but… it was the seventh heaven for me…"

Yujin was systematically removing every screw, with a perfectly fit screwdriver. Whether Yujin was conscious of it or not; she was kryptonite, the way her soft thighs brush against the sides of your abdomen, the soft feeling of her breasts, dipping onto my chest.

I needed to do more, with our mouths still connected, I sat up. Her ass was on my lap, the changing sensory world didn't matter to her, all she wanted to do was oblige in the kisses. It didn't even phase her once when I picked her up, standing, only, her legs locked herself in place to continue our mouth-to-mouth connection. I began my march to her bedroom, optimized to the utmost degree, every small peek I had of her bedroom perfectly aiding in this desperate situation-where I have to fuck Yujin for the remaining day, then the next, perhaps even forever; if only time would allow it so.

Her body clung to mine as I pressed her against the bed. This time, I had to pull off the heat of my loins unbearably tight, wanting-of new sensations. I could only imagine how ridiculous I looked, given how swollen Yujin's lips were, I could only imagine how bad it must be-of course, the imagery was supplemented with Yujin's soft giggle, her eyes staring at my mouth.

I finally got to rid Yujin of her treacherous t-shirt-one that blocked the view of her perfect breasts, her perfect abdomen. Her lithe, firm body was running every gear in my head, on how to perfectly ravish-to perfectly mark with my actions. Yujin could only stare, wide-eyed, she doesn't know what happens after, a little virgin, there needn't be a single statement clarifying this-I've already explored her enough to conclude so. I press into her, my mouth near her ears, "Don't worry Yujin, you'll just be under the greatest pleasure of your life, helplessly moaning-squealing on your professor's face." All she could reply with was a deep, sensual moan that would seem like someone pressed into her lungs, that's how deep it was. Slowly, but surely, I shift down, letting my fingers grip onto her godly skin, leaving vertical white trails on her skin until her pelvis; when I hook her skirt, off.

I could immediately feel the goosebumps on her thighs, where the warmth, the security of the skirt-or the lack thereof-provided some protection of her core, her wet little core. I stare into her eyes again. My stature of a well-respected professional is gone-only an animalistic drive to nail the hottest woman in the world through the bed. The dynamic of professor and student, no matter how fucked up, no matter how morally corrupt-or nefarious; began to turn me on instead of inhibit, it seems so to for Yujin as well, the stain of her arousal clear.

Her arms seemed to retract to her chest, her forearms squeezed her breasts together; though, I'm sure that wasn't intended, rather, it was likely to protect her little throbbing heart from the sensations, that heart she had on her sleeve. Despite my raging erection, my raging lust, I was inclined to treat her like porcelain, at least that part of me wasn't totally exhausted. Except when Yujin said, "I'm not so fragile, daddy, break me." Uncontrollably, greedily I pressed my mouth against her wetness, kissing around the soft skin. The wetness radiated, even under a layer of cloth, albeit a very flimsy, sexy, cloth.

Small whimpers rung out, vibrating the surface of her glossy skin around her heat after every small peck I placed on her inner thighs. Her legs were between my head, her thighs rested above my shoulder. As Yujin stared with a dogged innocence, a beautiful hesitance--I hooked the side of her panty. I pulled-softly, making sure the wet cloth makes as much contact, frictional force with her pink core. The gift wrapping revealed something divine, the lightest pink you can imagine, glossy with something that only be arousal. Slowly, I dipped my tongue into her core-it was unimaginably comfortable, the way her pussy felt on my tongue, a sort of hot soft-serve that got molded by your tongue. But it didn't taste like anything, that's when a realization hit: she spent an inordinate amount of time preparing, making sure that every part of her was ripe for a nice fuck, and slowly guided me into her siren-like seduction. I patted the side of her ass, giving a grin-as nasty as I could make it, a sign of things I was about to do, a sort of payback for her masterful manipulation. She stared back, her open mouth, the visible teeth morphed into a half-smile, still focused on how pleasurable my tongue was on her pussy. Immediately, I placed my finger on her clit, pressing softly against it, then circling it before I dipped my tongue deeper into her unimaginably tight hole. Her breathing went faster, her lower-half rubbed softly-even resisting when the pleasure was far too much. Of course, that's not what she signed up for-she signed up for a grueling fucking, a rough marking by her beloved professor.

10 seconds, only 10 seconds after the eye-contact, she came all over the bed. Her juices flowed freely, painting her inner thighs in some beautiful glossy coating. Her abdomen tensed in a rough hyperventilation, her cries grew higher and loud before she released into a deep moan. I tried to get as much of her juices on my fingers as possible, before letting her take it in the mouth-making her taste the fruits of her efforts, then spreading the saliva on my fingers over her chin.

"You taste amazing by the way." I stated, waiting for some explanation.

"This is how I taste, always." She panted, justifying it all.

"It wasn't just a carefully constructed ruse to bed me?"

She scoffed, "What kind of evil bitch do you think I am? I'm beginning to worry about what type of woman you bedded before me to make you think pussy tastes bad." Scoffing, her chest heaving, all glistened up.

"I'm a virgin too, I wouldn't know." I replied, jokingly.

This time, she whimpered, "That's… Ugh" I felt a resistance, then a strong push, she was suddenly saddened at the prospect of being just another lady bedded, another number. While she focused on the sentiment, my eyes, my lustful gaze only landed on her body. Of course, there's always an opportunity after every resistance-an opposing force against the applied force. Her head was positioned away, stubbornly opposing, but she left her bare neck-her smooth, thin neck-too openly.

Thus, my lips ended up on her smooth neck---squeezing out her pitiful moans. "Ungh~stop~! I'm still sensitive." She squeaked, her little throat muscles striated in trying to get her meek statement out. Fuel to the fire, it was only fuel to the fire, like a flame retardant---such as water---only strengthening the flame.

I marked her neck full of light bruises, ones that'll be dark tomorrow---dark in how badly I've wanted to possess her. Truly, I've gone insane. My mouth traced a path, from her soft, bruised neck down her bosom. Her nipples were framed with perky breasts, soft with a delicate femininity that she curated so diligently, so meticulously. Her little squeaks, pleads, exited her cute mouth faster, almost as much as when I ate her pussy. It was due to the multi-task that I engaged in, devouring her breast, whilst my hand massaged the other---less fortunate---breast.

Slowly, I released myself from her delicious breasts, still insatiable, pressed down on her breasts, my index fingers gliding, gripping against her nubs as if it were joysticks---literal joy sticks. Her breasts were painted in a beautiful pink hue, from how I used her, how I marked her---initially whitened from the pressure, then pink, then likely to be red for the rest of the day.

"Eunwoo..." she was splayed out on the bed, utterly satisfied---still with an enthusiastic gaze. "I want to suck your cock." She stated, matter of fact. "I want you to paint my mouth in your seed." she continued. "Let your seed fill my belly, the remains coating my chin..." her movements after each statement, in the silence, moved to push me on my back as she got up from her back. "Because, Professor, Eternal Love? Was that the title? And who was the love interest? If I didn't forget, it was... Khujin? As brilliant as you are, your naming conventions leaves a lot to be desired, I mean come on, it sounds oddly familiar." She completely pushed me over; I was slightly paralyzed with the discovery that she read what I was writing---it wasn't remotely family friendly, and perhaps, aimed towards her. Her eyes stared at me with knowing eyes, what exactly I desired from her at that moment; her lithe, perky body was positioned between my legs, kneeling, preparing to dip her mouth into eternal lust.

"From then on... Khujin took the face-fucking, dutifully, sexually, despite the size with which she was confronted with, took it. Her mouth ached, was pained, though, not in a conventional way; it ached in the desire to take him deeper." She just... requoted the entire sequence perfectly word-for-word from the paper.

Fuck!

There's nothing left to protect, nothing left to resist, we were unclothed, our secrets revealed, there was nothing left except our mutual wish to ravage each other until dawn. Our enlarged pupils---almost alien---met each other, glazed in some atypical determination. Finally, her head lowered and lowered before her tongue placed a meek lick on my cock. Then kisses, then a mix of licks while her hands clenched my wrists---signaling some sign that I shouldn't interfere, that I should enjoy this requited vindication.

Her mouth---even if virginal---provided some of the greatest relief. Her soft lips, erratic, still provided relief from my swollen tip. Her rookie mistakes, the slight graze of teeth, the meddling tongue only seemed to heighten the experience.

"You're a naughty fucking professor." She said, slightly biting down on the head, getting the intended reaction out of me---a great spasm. "Writing porn of a character that exactly resembles me. Mmmm naughty... so fucking naughty.."

"You're a horny, good-for-nothing student, Yujin."

We were fighting while she shallowly sucked in between her sentences, listening thoughtfully with a cock between her lips.

"I remember when you left that jacket at the library, I stole it. Then, I smelt it everyday, the cologne, the detergent, the natural smell. When you slept around I could smell it, the faint flowery smell alien to your scent."

She released her grip on my wrists, instead grabbing my dick, to better stimulate---to better punish. Her mouth hollowed out, the suction tremendously pleasing, the way she tongued at the underside of my shaft showing her real-time improvement. Then she popped my shaft out of her mouth again.

Somehow, she was angry again.

"Do you have nothing to say?" Yujin asked---irritatingly.

"I'm here now, Yujin."

"Idiot."

Her mouth went back, into the irresistible motions that she quickly figured out. Her head bobbed faster, I felt immensely relieved, yet I also felt an unbelievable greed, a sort of ripple between two identities in parallel, fighting for ultimate control.

I quickly and harshly gripped her hair, led her mouth down to the hilt---her low choke lubricated the hilt. Her fingers lightly tapped the sides of my thighs, with her perfect nails, the smooth skin, such a brave contrast to what was happening to her mouth. Her mouth suctioned again, not a word needed for preparedness, only the motions of our sexual organs were enough. Slowly, my grip on her hair went down to her scalp, a firmer place to grasp, to debase her identity further.

Her lips dragged long and hard, the suction felt stronger---the feeling of pulling out from her mouth harder than going in at this point. Her lips occasionally touched the base on my cock, only edging me closer. Until, I peaked, I growled as the first rope of cum landed deep into her throat. Even in this constricted, breathless stance where her dick was so deep in her throat that her throat reddened, her glazed puppy eyes stared back, almost a sign of some sort of sick victory over me. Then a second splash, the pressure so strong you'd think the flow was laminar---though I wouldn't know, her sexy throat hid it all. My head flew back, the relief of it all so strong, ropes turned into strings, strings turned into nothing---only the sensation of a suckling swallow could be felt on my sensitive tip.

There was no brief awkward silence, her mouth released in a godly erotic fashion. Her spittle still gathered on my cock, the spit strands coating her chin, her tongue clear and empty of the load I covered the insides of her mouth with.

She smiled so brightly - so happily. Her hands patted me on the thighs, trying to help me reconcile the fact that I throat-fucked a college freshman, the age gap already taboo, the fact that we were professor and student - only worsened it.

Her eyes were slightly red, the hint of tear trails on her face apparent. So badly did I want to hold her dear to my body, let the warmth of my chest keep her snug, let her rest. Yet, her reddened tits, her confused doe-like puppy eyes, her confused face, the slight glistening of her inner thighs goaded me endlessly. From that point on, I hadn't even realized I was hovering over her body. We were really gonna do it, I was gonna fuck her on her own bed, this beautiful, smart student.

"You really are an idiot" I say.

"Why? Because I like you? Because you're some respected higher up that I shouldn't entertain having a relationship with?"

It was that word: relationship. What are we gonna become-

"Eunwoo... master... professor... I don't just offer up my virginity to anyone... if you think I'm that easy to offer myself up to anyone - you're fucking crazy."

"You're a seduction master." I chuckle, letting her know the weakness of my self-control.

"If I'm a seduction master, then you're - I don't know - like Alain Delon." her hands hooked the nape of my neck, she was positioned so delicately, ready for whatever I wanted to do to her.

"I want this because I love you, Eunwoo."

"Who would've thought our little freshman is such a romantic, huh?" As I nuzzled my face into the side of her neck, give soft licks to her soft neck - her soft face a contrast to my stubbled jaw.

"Regardless of whether you insert your shaft inside me or not. I'll still follow you, to the ends of the earth, until you file a restraining order- Ah~!"

a single finger entered her, "Shh Yujin, An Yujin - all that pining to give up after a restraining order? I'll have to get you drunk on my dick, so that even the splitting of the earth won't deter you."

She squeaked, she definitely came, she definitely fucking came - hah. I let the finger exit slow, slowly trailing the wet finger up her abdomen - a sort of trail forming.

Finally, I palmed my dick, staring, realizing that I didn't have a condom. "Oh fuck - I don't have a condom" saying my thought out loud, she butts in, "Doesn't matter, please, anything - please." Her desperation clear in her tone - her fingers gripping dearly onto me.

"Who said anyone's leaving?" This time, her eyes were even wider. It was time, she knew it, I knew it, each step an acceleration to a barrier that we kept raising - was there even a barrier anymore? The depravity... the soulful acknowledgement of this cording relationship rose the hairs on my entire body; the blood in my chest frantically seemed to disperse, trying to control itself, to also control my entire body.

Though, if Yujin is under me, begging to be fucked - so hellbent, her glazed and aroused eyes pleading for some sinful contract. If only she knew - how much I'd do - there needn't be a single contract. I couldn't ever control myself anyway, what's there to deny?

Slowly - slowly - entered her, her sopping wetness gladly parted with some paradoxical resistance. The more I entered, the more her pussy resisted, the more her pussy pulled me in. The most sinful sounds, even more so than those of a minute ago, the squelch of a virgin hole being stretched - fuck, holy fuck.

"Ngghhh~ holy shit, please, more!" She desperately tried to close her mouth, aware of the lack of noise canceling. The way her mewls and moans exited between the tightest clasp of her mouth, the way her twinkled, the exasperation of a different type of pain stretching, beautifying her already goddess-like face. "I love it! Eunwoo~", that earned her a full stroke to the hilt. I grabbed the hand off her mouth - the way her face morphed into fear was beautiful, she was close to her neighbors - those neighbors who were about to hear Yujin's highest shrieks, highest orgasms. Another stroke, then another, I couldn't even describe how sinful her sounds were, shrieks, moans, deep to high - the sheer entropy of her mannerisms clearly showing her arousal. The next door neighbors would know, even the vertical neighbors would know. If they saw me entering her home, then I'm fucked - yet, I can't stop fucking her, the way her hips rotate and drift off my cock, the way her pussy lips wrap so tightly, so snug around my length.

I began pounding away, her thin waist acclimating to my tight grip, the way her breasts bounced when her ass slapped against my loins; who said missionary was boring? The way I kneeled, the way her body angled at a point - true rookie mistake - I kept pounding away at her g-spot. How many times she came - I wouldn't know - but the amount of liquid dispersed all over us, a mix of sweat and whatever else was definitely a clue. The way my length explored her insides so thoroughly, the way I'm pretty sure I bottomed her out, bound to bruise her cervix; the way her moans grew more unhinged, her eyes slowing going back inside her head, her arms almost unresponsive.

Until.

Until, Yujin grabbed onto me, it wasn't an ordinary grip, a nuanced grip that lovers of decades could understand - I'm sure there's some hidden meaning in that. The way her soft fingers grabbed my forearm while she laid down - panting with sweat, the glow of sex, possibly covered in her squirt. I made sure to stop at exactly when the base of my length met with her pussy - immersing myself in her beautiful warmth, sheathed in her velvety walls.

"Eunwoo - please slow down, I'm not going anywhere, by the next half-hour we'll be walking skeletons..."

This time, still plugged with my length I pulled her up, face-to-face where she sat on the slope of my kneel - adjusting myself accordingly to not destroy my knees.

"How could I Yujin? Light of my life, fire of my loin-"

She playfully slapped my shoulder

"Why are you referencing Lolita!?" in a giggling manner, understanding all at once.

"Careful where you slap your hands around, Yujin."

"Hm? What're you gonna do-mm!" A closed reaction to receiving a deep kiss. Slowly, my arms slithered around her back, to make sure that she doesn't fall - but, mostly to ensure that I could fuck her, utterly, fully under my control.

The way her eyes shined, with a deep desire - some atypical lust - yet still somehow looking so innocent, as if brilliant gems were in place of her pupils. Every time I get to stare at her, especially now that our eyes were separated by the width of a nose, I feel glad that someone - just someone like that exists, even better with the fact that we cohabit this area, and even better that our lips slip against each other. The act of exchanging saliva - a deeply disturbing thought - hadn't registered in us at all, only desire and love.

Slowly, her moans left her pretty mouth with emphasis - clearly enjoying the slower pace in which I gave these decrepit kisses to her cervix. Her velvety folds seemed to contract even more spastically - the movement easier, yet tighter, yet harder, parenthetically a paradox.

If only such paradoxes were this pleasurable.

"I'm gonna cum, Yujin." The sounds were absolutely vicious, viscous with the repeated slapping of our loins, the cold strands of her juices landing on my thighs whenever her pink core left the base of my length. "Eunwoo, give it to me, inside, everything." I tried to object; "Eunwoo, shhh, don't try to talk sense with me - it's too late for that, if you don't spill your biggest seed inside me, I'll chase you around the world."

"A restraining order?" I replied, curious for a response.

"And that'll stop me? After getting drunk on your dick, as you said? " She replied back, serious.

"You're right baby." I pumped into her deeper, slanting a little to get topological synchronicity: my chest fully in contact with her chest, the warmth compared to the biting cold of the environment only goading us on further. The way her soft, perky breasts pooled on my chest made my pumps only deeper - kisses more passionate.

"What if I do? What if I cum inside you?" Our eyes were level, engaging in a seriously serious topic. All care should've been granted to the topic - of course, we both knew the pending event.

"Then, presumably, understandably, I'll be by your side - with your favorite tea, massaging your soreness. And maybe, just maybe, nursing a little Eunwoo." Fuck! I hugged her tight - too tight. The small of her back caved in with my tight hug as I mashed my dick inside her swollen pussy. The way she moaned was less noticeable, she was so focused on receiving the load - breathing into the side of my neck, playing with my hair, exacting some stimuli to wring me out dry.

Her body perfectly molded into my force. Her ass molded against my tough thighs, her hard nipples poked my chest expectedly. When, just when, the hypothetical situation with Yujin - of a filial future - flashed in my mind, the first release of semen launched inside her. Ribbons of her deepest desire filled her - indulging her. We kissed - the natural course as expected when I released inside her.

Ropes of semen turned into strings, then finally - nothing. We embraced each other, I still hugged her just as tight, she hugged back with the delicacy of an angel.

"Yujin..."

"Holy shit." She replied.

Holy shit was right.

"-Like holy fucking shit." I emphatically replied.

Her gem-like pupils looked at me, her entire face turned into a smile.

"You'll have to call me wife from now on."

"Hm?" Fully not processing her request.

"Call me wife behind closed doors."

"Why?"

"Because.. why not?"

After a swift thought - one that didn't really have any substance at all - "Wife... wife... rolls off the tongue nicely."

She gave a peck on my lips, "make sure that it rolls off the tongue as easy as it does now... I'll want to hear it everyday."

"Wifey... who's cleaning the bed?" I jokingly inquired - of course, the truth was that the bed wouldn't dry in a day, and the way we are right now: the overflowing semen was still plugged inside her - with my cock.

Though, that would be a worry that could be taken care of later. Right now, the half-life of our post-sex fatigue finished - the other half to be finished when our lips met again.

Fin.

Steamy Mornings and Massages (Winter x Male OC)

7k words

Tags: smut, fluff, office sex, office massage, soulmates, romance, very love-heavy

Chapter 1: The Day After

"Let's just stay here," Minjeong murmured, pressing soft kisses to the crown of Junho's head. The morning alarm had shattered what his typically precise mind had categorized as Optimal Comfort Configuration™, but neither of them had moved to silence it[1].

His face remained buried in the crook of her neck, accepting what his mind reluctantly acknowledged as the only form of comfort he'd ever truly wanted. "Well, my secretary," he rumbled against her skin, the possessive pronoun carrying new weight in the morning light, "on a very important day, doesn't want to go to work?" Despite his words, his arms tightened incrementally around her waist, betraying his own reluctance.

Minjeong's embrace constricted in response, her Busan accent thick with morning warmth. "What are you going to do? Fire me?" Despite the implied challenge, she still continued to press soft kisses on his forehead. He tightened his embrace further, relishing in the warmth of Minjeong.

The challenge in her voice activated something primal in his executive functioning. His teeth grazed her neck in warning, hovering over precisely the spot that would make any low-necked blouse useless to wear for the following days. "Maybe," he murmured, his hand sliding to the small of her back with deliberate intent, dangerously close to the curve of her backside, "I'll fire you and keep you here, all day long, so that you belong only to me."

"That's..." her breath hitched as his hand dropped lower, "...rather unprofessional of you."

He lifted his head just enough to fix her with that boardroom stare that never failed to make her pulse race. "Says the woman currently preventing her CEO from attending his meetings." Her CEO? Something warm raced inside of her-she thought, her ceo? And this time, she wrapped her arms tighter-however much her thin arms could tighten; nevertheless, an affectionate hug.

"I prefer to think of it as optimizing your morning routine," she countered, though her professional efficiency was somewhat undermined by the way she melted under his touch, furthermore when he traced the curves of her backside. "Some things are more important than the Zhang Corp merger."

His laugh vibrated against her throat. "Careful, Secretary Kim. That sounds dangerously close to insubordination."

"And what does the CEO do with insubordinate employees?" The question emerged soft and weaker than intended as his mouth traced a deliberate path along her collar, trying her most obnoxiously.

"That depends," he murmured, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made her breath catch. "Are they all as beautiful as you when they disobey direct orders?"

She attempted to maintain her composure, though her hands betrayed her by pulling him closer. "I wouldn't know. I've never seen you like this with other employees[2]."

"No," he agreed, suddenly serious as he raised his head to meet her gaze. "You haven't. You won't."

The intensity in his eyes made her throat tight. "Promise?"

Instead of answering, he caught her mouth in a kiss that effectively ended all discussion of work protocols and proper business conduct[3]. The morning sun painted complex equations of light across their entangled forms, but for once, neither of them was counting the minutes.

-

[1] The first recorded instance of CEO Kim's morning alarm continuing past its initial 0.3-second alert phase, a fact that would require significant updates to the home automation system's behavioral prediction models.

[2] The security system's emotion recognition protocols flagged this moment for what its algorithms could only classify as "Unprecedented Display of Executive Vulnerability."

[3] Later analysis would suggest that certain forms of insubordination yielded surprisingly positive results in terms of overall company morale, though these findings were kept strictly off the official record.

-

"You haven't eaten properly in days," Minjeong observed softly, her fingers tracing the subtle tension in his shoulders that most wouldn't notice. But she wasn't most people-she'd spent months learning to read the microscopic signs of his stress levels[4].

"I've been eating," he defended, though his attempt at authority was somewhat undermined by the way he instinctively relaxed under her touch.

"Coffee and quarterly reports don't count as meals," she countered, continuing her gentle exploration of his shoulder muscles. "I've watched you skip lunch three times this week alone."

He lifted his head to study her face, finding that mix of strength and tenderness that had first undone him. "You keep track of my meals?"

"I keep track of everything about you," she admitted, not backing down from his intense gaze. "Someone has to notice when you forget to take care of yourself."

His hand curved around the nape of her neck, thumb brushing her pulse point. "And you've appointed yourself to that position?"

"Consider it an extension of my secretarial duties," she murmured, then gasped softly as he tightened his grip in warning.

"There's nothing secretarial about the way you take care of me," he corrected, voice low and dangerous. "Is there, Minjeong-ah?"

The informal address, rarely used, made her breath catch. "No," she agreed quietly. "There isn't."

He studied her for a long moment, his analytical mind cataloging the flush in her cheeks, the slight quickening of her breath, the way she yielded to his touch while somehow maintaining that core of quiet strength[5]. "You're dangerous," he finally said, "dangerously beautiful, so beautiful," then a kiss on the side of her neck which, eventually, will turn into a hickey and Minjeong hadn't the power to resist her CEO's advances anymore.

"Me?" She replied, out of breath, tremored, brilliantly transformed by her smile-the type of smile men fight wars for, the type of smile sinewy sociopathic CEOs would drop down for. "I'm just trying to make sure Korea's most brilliant CEO-I mean, my CEO, remembers to eat breakfast." Her small hand collected the waves of his hair, the aroma of the shampoo she recommended wafted in the air.

"Minjeong, you're driving me crazy."

"Is that a problem?" She pulled back her hand along his scalp, gathering hair, then trailing all down his nape, to his back: the type of affection that says, even if you were insane, I'd still be crazy about you.

Instead of answering directly, he pressed his lips to her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth-a calculated sequence of kisses that made her melt further into his embrace. "The only problem," he murmured against her skin, "is that you're making it very difficult to want to leave this bed."

-

[4] Her observation logs, never shared but meticulously maintained, included such details as the precise angle of his jaw when overwhelmed, the subtle shift in his typing rhythm when stressed, and the exact tone of voice that meant he'd skipped meals.

[5] The home automation system's behavioral analysis protocols struggled to categorize this new dynamic, where authority and surrender seemed to flow both ways simultaneously.

-

"Three days," Minjeong continued, her fingers finding the knots in his shoulders with practiced ease. "You've had that tension here since the Singapore deal started falling apart." The morning light caught the subtle furrow in his brow as he processed her words, realizing she'd been tracking his stress levels without him noticing. Her touch was methodical yet tender, each pressure point targeted with the same precision she applied to his scheduling.

"I didn't think anyone had noticed," he admitted, then caught her knowing smile. "Except you."

"I always notice," she replied simply. "Like how you've been drinking twice your usual coffee intake, or how your left eye twitches slightly when the board sends those passive-aggressive emails." Her hands moved lower, finding another point of tension. "You hide it well, but not from me."

He caught her wrist, bringing it to his lips. "It becomes…oddly weird when I see you do the things I usually do." The tease in his voice was softened by the way he pressed kisses to her fingertips.

"Consider it preventive maintenance," she countered, not backing down despite Junho trying to hide his habits under the rug, not backing down despite the heat in his gaze. "Someone needs to monitor your functionality levels[6]."

"Functionality levels?" His laugh rumbled against her skin as he shifted to hover over her. "Is that what we're calling this?"

"Would you prefer 'executive performance metrics'?" She managed to keep her voice steady even as his mouth traced a deliberate path down her throat. "I have spreadsheets..."

"Of course you do," he murmured, teeth grazing her collarbone in retaliation. "My perfectly thorough secretary, tracking every detail."

"Not just details," she breathed, hands sliding up his chest. "I know when you skip lunch to avoid the board members. When you stay late reviewing reports that could wait until morning. When you need..." she paused as his hand curved possessively around her hip, "...someone to remind you that you're human."

The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Junho lifted his head to study her face, finding that unique blend of submission and strength that had first undone his carefully constructed defenses[7]. "And you've appointed yourself to that position?"

"Someone has to." Her smile carried traces of Busan sunshine. "Besides, I'm uniquely qualified."

"How so, Minjeong-ah?" Another tease.

"Because you love me." Minjeong stated, matter of factly. And this time, Junho seized her tight, trapping her under him, seizing her two thin wrists. Then, pressed a deep kiss onto Minjeong's delicate lips. After a while, he released himself from the kiss, the kiss that Minjeong reluctantly let go of-her lips pointing outwards like a duck as he left. Finally, he said, "That's right, I love you."

Her stomach stirred with butterflies and more.

-

[6] Her personal files, never shared but meticulously maintained, included detailed protocols for managing various levels of CEO stress responses, from subtle intervention to direct action.

[7] The exact moment of this defensive breach had been logged by the building's security systems, though the footage was classified under "Executive Privacy Protocols."

-

Minjeong lingered in bed, her heart performing calculations that had nothing to do with quarterly reports. The smart home system's sensors detected her elevated pulse rate, though no algorithm could properly quantify the joy radiating from her smile[8]. She stretched luxuriously against Egyptian cotton sheets that still held traces of his warmth, letting herself marvel at the reality of being here, in his space, surrounded by evidence of Junho.

Her mind couldn't help but catalog the endearing chaos around her-academic journals scattered across surfaces, a tablet displaying economic projections that had clearly been reviewed at 3 AM, several coffee cups in various states of abandonment. The morning light revealed what darkness and desire had hidden the night before: Junho's private space was a fascinating contradiction to his public persona, a detail she filed away with all her other precious observations of him.

Rising with practiced grace, she padded across cold hardwood floors, her bare feet gliding across the floor. His dress shirt from the previous night-the one that had hung open as they'd discovered more interesting uses for his mahogany desk-called to her like a siren song. She slipped it on, the fabric carrying traces of his unisex cologne and something uniquely him that made her stomach flutter[9].

Junho emerged from his ensuite bathroom to find her like this: drowning in his shirt, examining his space with that careful attention she brought to everything concerning him. His breath caught audibly.

"That's mine," he noted, his voice carrying that dangerous edge that never failed to make her pulse race.

She turned to face him, letting the hem of his shirt brush against her thighs. "Really? I think it's mine."

-

[8] The home automation system logged this moment as: "Secondary User Biometrics Indicating Unprecedented Levels of Serotonin. CEO Response: Highly Favorable."

[9] Security footage would later reveal this as the exact moment CEO Kim's usually impeccable morning routine experienced a critical efficiency failure, though no one questioned why that particular shirt never made it to the dry cleaners.

-

"You know," Junho mused against her neck, his hands tracing idle patterns on her thighs, "for someone so concerned about my eating habits, you're being very distracting in my kitchen."

"Me?" Minjeong's attempt at innocence was undermined by the way her fingers kept playing with his hair. "I'm trying to feed you."

"Wearing my shirt. Sitting on my counter." His smile carried equal parts mischief and heat as he pulled back to look at her. "I'm starting to think this is corporate sabotage, Secretary Kim."

She tried to maintain her professional expression, though her lips twitched. "I would never compromise company productivity, 사장님."

"No?" He raised an eyebrow, fingers sliding deliberately higher under his shirt. "Then explain why Korea's most efficient CEO is currently contemplating skipping his 9 AM."

"Poor executive guidance?" she suggested, then squeaked as he nipped her earlobe in retaliation. "I mean... clearly you need better supervision."

"Is that your professional opinion?" His laugh was warm against her skin. "And I suppose you're volunteering for the position?"

"Well," she threaded her fingers through his hair, tugging gently, "I do have extensive experience in handling difficult executives."

He lifted his head, eyes dancing. "Difficult?"

"Demanding," she amended, then added with deliberate sweetness, "High-maintenance?"

"You," he declared, catching her wrists and pinning them behind her back with one hand, "are getting dangerously bold with your performance reviews[12]."

Her answering smile was pure sunshine. "Does that mean I'm not getting that raise?"

"Oh, I'll give you a raise," he promised, his free hand sliding up her spine as he pressed closer. "Right after we discuss your insubordination."

"I have a presentation prepared," she managed, though her breath hitched as his mouth found that sensitive spot behind her ear. "Complete with charts on CEO stubbornness metrics..."

"Using company resources for personal research?" His mock disapproval was somewhat undermined by the way he couldn't stop smiling against her skin. "That's a serious violation of corporate policy."

"And what's the penalty for that?" She arched into his touch, shameless. "More overtime with my boss?"

"Definitely." He captured her mouth in a kiss that tasted like laughter and promise. "Starting now[13]."

-

[12] The home automation system registered this interaction as a significant deviation from standard performance review protocols, though it noted remarkable improvements in overall satisfaction metrics.

[13] Later analysis of the kitchen's usage patterns would reveal this as the morning the coffee maker recorded its latest ever first brew, a delay that would become surprisingly routine.

-

"We're going to be late," Minjeong observed, though she made no move to leave her perch on the counter as Junho's hands mapped new territories beneath his borrowed shirt. The morning sun painted gold across his shoulders, and she couldn't resist tracing the light with her fingers.

"Concerned about punctuality now?" His smile was wicked against her collar. "After deliberately sabotaging your CEO's morning routine?"

"I would never," she protested, then gasped as his teeth found that sensitive spot below her ear. "I'm simply... optimizing your schedule."

"Is that what we're calling it?" His laugh vibrated through both their bodies as he pressed closer, effectively trapping her against the granite. "And how does this particular optimization benefit the company?"

Her fingers curled into his hair as his mouth traced a deliberate path down her throat. "Improved executive mood... increased satisfaction metrics... better work-life balance..."

"Very thorough analysis," he approved, his hand sliding higher up her thigh. "Though I think we need more data points[14]."

"준호야..." Her professional composure cracked entirely as his fingers found bare skin. "The Zhang Corp meeting..."

"Can wait." He lifted his head to meet her gaze, his smile carrying that perfect blend of authority and affection that never failed to undo her. "I'm conducting important research."

"On what?" She managed to arch an eyebrow despite her rapidly dissolving coherence. "How to make your secretary lose her mind?"

"Girlfriend," he corrected, voice dropping to that dangerous register as his thumb traced patterns on her inner thigh. "And I believe we were discussing your performance review[15]."

Jun abruptly stopped their performance review midway because the deal was on the line and time was running short. Minjeong was reminded of this painfully by how Jun pulled away from the kiss-she was pouty about it until they reached the office, when her damascus-like resolve kicks in.

-

[14] The kitchen's environmental sensors registered multiple instances of what could only be classified as "Critical Protocol Deviations," though these readings were automatically archived under "Executive Privacy Settings."

[15] HR would later note a curious correlation between the CEO's improved mood and these new "morning performance evaluations," though no one dared to investigate further.

-

Chapter 2: The Meeting

The Zhang Corp representatives sat across the mahogany conference table, their expressions carefully neutral as they reviewed the merger proposals. Minjeong maintained her perfect professional facade, though her pulse quickened every time Junho's hand brushed hers as she passed him documents[1].

"The third quarter projections," she murmured, leaning close enough that his cologne made her thoughts stray to their morning activities. His finger tapped twice against the paper-their private signal that he needed a moment to compose himself.

"As you can see," Junho addressed the room with that commanding presence that made board members squirm, though Minjeong could detect the slight roughness in his voice that hadn't been there before their morning 'delay', "our integration timeline is aggressive but achievable."

She took her seat beside him, crossing her legs in a way that made his pen pause fractionally on the contract. Two could play at this game of professional torture. His response was to rest his hand on her thigh under the table, hidden from view but commanding enough to make her breath catch[2].

"Secretary Kim," he said smoothly, his thumb tracing dangerous patterns against her skin, "would you pull up the logistics breakdown?"

"Of course, 사장님." She managed to keep her voice steady as she reached for her tablet, though her free hand found his wrist under the table, her fingers curling around it in what could have been either submission or warning.

The meeting proceeded with perfect corporate efficiency, though the undercurrent of tension between CEO and secretary created what the room's environmental sensors could only classify as "Critical Atmospheric Pressure"[3].

-

[1] The conference room's biometric scanners noted elevated heart rates in both CEO and secretary, though this data was diplomatically omitted from official meeting records.

[2] Security footage would later require careful editing to maintain professional appearances, particularly regarding certain "under-table activities."

[3] The Zhang Corp representatives would later confess to the fact that they could tell what was happening, no amount of demure leg-crossing could hide it. Though, they ignored it in order to get that deal (which was integral to them).

-

The private office door clicked shut behind them, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across imported marble floors. Junho rolled his shoulders, tension evident in his posture despite the meeting's success[4].

"Come here," Minjeong said softly, recognizing the signs of his post-negotiation stress. She guided him to his leather chair, her hands already moving to his shoulders. "You get so tense during these meetings." Instead of standing behind him and the chair, she stood in front, impending a mount to get 'better access' to his shoulders.

"Keeping my hands to myself requires considerable effort," he admitted, then groaned softly as her fingers found a particularly tight knot. "Especially when you keep giving me those looks."

"What looks?" Her innocent tone was betrayed by the way her hands slid lower, tracing patterns down his upper chest. "I was being perfectly professional."

He caught her wrist, tugging her to face him. "Professional? Is that what you call that thing you did with your pen?"

"Taking notes?" She smiled down at him, letting her fingers trail along his tie. "I'm very thorough in my documentation."

"Very thorough," he agreed, pulling her into his lap with practiced ease. "Though I noticed some interesting gaps in the meeting minutes."

"Oh?" Her hands returned to his shoulders, kneading the tension even as she shifted closer. "Like what?"

"Like how many times you deliberately brushed against me," his voice dropped lower as her fingers worked their magic, "or how your skirt kept riding up when you reached for files[5]."

"Maybe," she breathed, her ministrations becoming less therapeutic and more intentional, "your secretary just needs better supervision."

His laugh rumbled through both their bodies. "Is that what you need, Secretary Kim?"

Instead of answering, she pressed a kiss to that spot below his ear that always made him growl. His hands tightened on her hips in warning, but she didn't stop her exploration of his neck, her fingers still working the tension from his shoulders even as she created a different kind of pressure entirely.

"The door," he managed, though his hands were already sliding under her blouse.

"Locked," she murmured against his skin. "I'm very efficient."

"My perfect secretary," he agreed.

-

[4] The office's environmental controls registered what could only be classified as "Post-Meeting Stress Relief Protocol: Executive Override Engaged."

[5] The meeting's official minutes would maintain strict professional standards, though certain observations were kept in much more private records.

-

"You're still tense," Minjeong observed, her fingers tracing new patterns down his spine. The afternoon light painted gold across his desk, where various merger documents lay forgotten. "Let me take care of you properly."

She slid from his lap, moving behind his chair with practiced grace. Her hands returned to his shoulders, this time with more purposeful intent. Junho's head fell back as she worked a particularly tight knot, a sound escaping him that had nothing to do with professional conduct[7].

"That noise," she murmured, leaning close enough that her breath teased his ear, "is definitely not going in the meeting minutes."

His laugh turned into another groan as her thumbs hit a sensitive spot. "Keeping secrets from the board, Secretary Kim?"

"Only the interesting ones," she admitted, her hands sliding lower, tracing the muscles of his back through his expensive shirt. "Like how my very commanding CEO turns to putty when I do this..."

His hand shot up to catch her wrist in warning. "Careful," his voice carried that dangerous edge that made her stomach flip. "You're getting bold with your observations."

"Just maintaining detailed records," she breathed, not backing down despite his grip. "For example, when I press here..." Her free hand found another knot, making him inhale sharply. "Your left eye twitches slightly. And when I do this..." She leaned forward, letting her lips brush his neck. "Your pulse jumps exactly like it did during the merger talks[8]."

The chair spun suddenly, Junho pulling her back into his lap with decisive force. "You," he growled, hands spanning her waist, "are playing a dangerous game."

Her smile was pure innocence, though her fingers were already working his tie loose. "I'm simply being thorough in my duties, 사장님."

"Your duties," he repeated, watching her with dark amusement as she stripped his tie with expert efficiency. "Is that what we're calling this?"

"Would you prefer 'executive stress relief'?" She gasped as his teeth found her collar. "Or maybe 'personnel management'?"

His laugh vibrated against her skin. "I prefer," he murmured, hands sliding deliberately up her thighs, "when you stop talking altogether[9]."

-

[7] The office's audio sensors temporarily malfunctioned during this period, a technical glitch that occurred with suspicious regularity during certain "private meetings."

[8] Her personal files contained extensive documentation of CEO behavioral patterns, though certain observations were encrypted under "Private Research: Ongoing."

[9] The afternoon's remaining meetings would require creative rescheduling, though no one questioned why the CEO's mood had improved so dramatically.

-

"You missed a spot," Minjeong murmured against his mouth, her fingers finding another knot of tension in his shoulders even as she shifted closer in his lap. The leather chair creaked softly beneath them, a sound that would forever carry new associations in both their minds[10].

"Did I?" His hands slid higher beneath her skirt, mapping territories that were becoming dangerously familiar for office hours. "Or are you just making excuses to keep touching your CEO?"

She pulled back just enough to give him that look-the one that somehow managed to be both defiant and yielding. "I take my responsibilities very seriously, 사장님."

"I've noticed," he growled, catching her wrist as she tried to maintain the pretense of massage. "Like how seriously you took those meeting notes earlier. Very... thorough."

Her laugh caught in her throat as his lips found that sensitive spot below her ear. "I was documenting important observations."

"Such as?" His teeth grazed her pulse point, making her grip his shoulders for balance.

"Such as," she managed, though her professional tone wavered as his hands grew bolder, "how the great Kim Junho gets distracted when I cross my legs. How your voice drops exactly half an octave when you're trying not to react to me. How you tap your pen twice when you're thinking about-"

He silenced her with a kiss that effectively derailed all attempts at analysis[11]. When he finally pulled back, her dazed expression made him smirk. "Any other observations to record, Secretary Kim?"

"I must've forgotten, I usually remember better when you kiss me." She hinted, and he obliged, letting his lips connect yet again with Minjeong. This time, the endless teasing reached a breaking point that both of them coalesced to at the same time.

He tightly grasped her backside then pulled her up from the executive chair to the executive table. Wherein, she was splayed across the wide table. "We really have to ban tables when we're around each other." She joked.

"That'd be a terrible idea."

"How so?"

"Where else could I splay you across like this, then explore you, centimeter-by-centimeter?"

"Hmm…" she hummed, pleased, "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then come here, my ceo."

"My beautiful secretary, whatever shall I do with you?"

"I don't know, why don't you find out?" She pulled as tight as she could, locking her arms around his neck.

He obliged, meeting lips with her once again. He felt the softness of her face as he explored deeper into the kiss, forgetting time and everything except what was being shared between them. Journeying his hands further, entangling it into the silken strands of his lover as he deepened the kiss, and she replied with a deep sigh-trembling with a mix of her high register.

"You're such a good woman for me, Minjeong." He said before nipping at her lower lip, catching it softly between his teeth with a teasing tug, Minjeong let out a breathless laugh, "you're devouring me, Junho." Regardless, he dug deeper, letting his entire body shift into Minjeong's malleable, petite body-letting his hand explore more of her silken strands, almost saying, yes Minjeong, that is my purpose: to devour you.

Now, instead of every 5 seconds, Minjeong's soft moans that only served to goad Junho on were musically released into his ears every second. Precautiously, she asked, "how good is the soundproofing in your private room-ah!"

"Not good enough to hide your moans, dear." He replied, his voice like rough gravel. Her eyes widened suddenly from the need to hide her moans. Yet he dug deeper, letting his loin rub against her wet bottom, daring her moan out loud.

Despite all the regulations, the possible condemnation, their passions only grew more. Mouths moving in sync, gazes meeting momentarily, it wasn't just kissing anymore-it was a language. The type of language where Minjeong coalesced to his dangerous games and learned to enjoy it, almost as much as him.

"Junho, seriously, I don't want to be seen as-"

"Minjeong-ah, I don't give a single fuck if my employees hear you and I." The teeth that so brazenly tugged on her lower lips trailed down her neck, tracing the soft tendons.

Whispering, in a verbose way, "And as you are my secretary, my extension, my life-line, you'll follow. Me." And as Minjeong was getting battered by the gravel-slung voice of Junho-she hadn't noticed how her blouse was opened, bra pushed down to reveal the breasts that he was so infatuated with-only until she felt the torsion of her nipple.

"Ngh!"

"I love that, Minjeong, scream out. I'll fuck you until the entire floor hears you call my name."

And another wet mewl that inspired his further deviance.

Feeling the soft suction of his mouth on her neck, she deduced that it could only mean one thing: another hickey just placed above the collar of her blouse, the same sort of hickey that the Zhang corp executives couldn't keep their eyes off of-any justification in their minds that it was a skin discoloration was debilitated by how intensely Minjeong and Junho shared those deadly glances, likely to jump on each other as soon as they left-and they were right.

"Junho-ngh!"

"Louder." He replied, testing her, "fucking. Louder." Then he pressed deeper, grinding his rough textured pants on the creamy soft bottom of Minjeong.

"Please Junho, seriously." Was all that she could get out of her bated breaths, her deep moans.

Then suddenly, he stopped, caressing the softness of her cheeks with his, back-handed, knuckles.

"You look so beautiful when you're all tired and exhausted, did I tell you that before?" Letting the tune of his voice marinate with Minjeong (who was recovering from how hot and bothered she was just a second ago).

However good his intentions were, he wasn't perfect. The way Minjeong's body looked splayed against the messy paperwork, her blonde hair all frizzy and stuck to the desk, how her chest went in-and-out catching all the breath she lost-all of it made it impossible for him to resist anymore.

He pounced on her again, connecting lips against her wet, trembling lips that nonetheless accepted him so openly, like a warm cup of milk tea on a winter morning. That momentary pause had changed everything, Minjeong-now fully conquered by him-was begging for that penetrative action that he would give out so liberally to her.

"Naughty woman, bad secretary, what else?"

"Junho's toy."

"Fuck." And in a flash, his belt flew off, then in another flash, his pants fell down.

"Tented much?" She was truly in no position to tease: a strategic error.

He grinned at the statement, finally, teasingly, let his underwear fall inch-by-inch.

Simultaneously, she bunched up her legs then pulled off her panty that revealed the color combinations that he would die for. Though before he could look for longer, she crossed her shins-hiding the cause of Junho's demise behind her thin legs.

They shared a giggle before Jun hugged her soft body.

"I will penetrate you in this office."

"Yes. It appears so."

"No, like, do you consent?"

"Idiot.." Minjeong pulled him in for another kiss. Which, coincidentally, made his tip graze her engorged and swollen core, Minjeong almost came instantaneously from that alone.

And he could tell, laughing, "Seriously, Minjeong?"

"It's your fault, you trained me like this."

"This is like our 3rd time." He said, as if to brush it off.

"This is my 3rd time."

And Minjeong would be certainly hurt by the thought that Junho's partners before her made it more than his 3rd time for him-some of them, the girlfriends, she saw.

He caught on the clues before it was too late, "Minjeong, not to compare, but who else have I been so crazy about? Who else did I track for every minute of the day? Who else did I let in my home (his girlfriends didn't, actually, get to enter his home)? Who else would make me lose composure when they're out of my sight-line?"

Letting his forehead touch against hers, he could feel her heart rend and beat and do all sorts of bothered gymnastics.

"It's always been about you, Minjeong. You are the brilliance of my life, the expansion of a born star-bright from millions of light years away."

And she needn't say anything or reply. Absolving him by wrapping her arms tighter around his nape, then holding up her head to desperately kiss Junho again and again.

In between all the kisses, he penetrated Minjeong. His length, constricted against her core, travelled softly-wringing out all sorts of noises. Her swollen pussy wrapped around him gently but tight. "I love you, Minjeong." Was the last thing said before Minjeong's eyes went into the back of her head-a cute habit-before she orgasmed and creamed all over.

As per her request, Junho didn't stop. He let his hips move as slow as he could possibly go before it could be called torture. During all this, Minjeong grabbed for stability as she was getting fucked through her orgasm, feeling that intense thrusting from the love of her life as she covered his length in more of her slick.

"Oh f-" He covered her mouth this time, respecting her wish to stay at least a little lowkey in the office, whatever the hell that meant right now. Then, shallow thrusts turned into slow thrusts all the way to the hilt, getting Minjeong to scrunch her face in pleasure, eyebrows knitted in the highest pleasure, her mouth agape with strands of her saliva connecting the roof of her mouth to her tongue.

"I love you, Minjeong. Fuck. This is insane, having sex with you in my office."

"Ngh~ I - I love you so much," was all that she could get across before succumbing to her dopamine receptors-eyes joining the back her head. Junho connected lips with her again, letting her legs lock around his waist, then rubbing his pelvis against her engorged core, clitoris and all.

After Minjeong finally got used to the familiar motions, he grasped her thin waist, almost wrapping his two hands around the entire circumference of her tight waist. Then their eyes met momentarily, Junho had the I am going to fuck you through this desk eyes whilst Minjeong had the prey eyes that relentlessly coalesced to him. Though, before he could go wild, he brushed off the stray hairs stuck to her forehead, gave a reaffirming kiss on her forehead before pumping all the way in.

The small of her back surrendered to his tight grip, bending against the pushes and pulls. Her legs tightened the lock around his waist-almost painfully tight, but that didn't matter to him, who'd get to pummel her soft pussy.

"You're so fucking tight," he planted his body against Minjeong's, pinning her two thin wrists against the stable table.

"You're fucking me so good, Junho," Minjeong replied, her rare use of the curse made him chuckle by the side of her head.

"That's right, baby," Junho bear-hugged Minjeong, only thrusting deeper and deeper, pelvis rubbing against hers, to make her cum again.

"NGHHH~!" The abrupt moan startled him and herself-however, they didn't care as much about the employees anymore after indulging in each other's bodies. Instead of stopping or evaluating the situation-as the rationalists would do-they dug deeper into each other, trying to carve each other with their soft and swollen lips.

Suddenly, he lifted Winter and turned her over. Bending her back against the table before dipping his cock into her pussy again. This time, the entrance was entranced with the soft, tight, wet feeling that he was fully obsessed with. This time, he had more ready access to her soft ass that was so soft and supple that he had to relieve it of its aesthetic beauty: with some redness spread across her ass.

"Oh my god!" Winter squeaked as she reacted against the heavy-handed slap against her ass, loving it, spreading-overflowing-his length with her slick.

Leaning over, he held Minjeong's chin for the last stretch, considerably slowing down and enjoying each other's presence.

"How much do you bet the coworkers will give us bad looks?"

"The female workers already give me horrible ones." She said whilst her chin was held stable by his hand, still moaning against the soft thrusts.

"Hmm, broad generalization. How do you know this?"

"That hickey that you gave that was far too purple and far too above the collar of my blouse."

"No long-necked turtleneck?"

"No, that'd ruin the point, I wanted to show off the gift my Junho-ssi gave." That was the moment when he moaned hard, pressing deep inside Winter before releasing all his seed-the seed that Winter felt bounce against her cervix, making her moan out and squeal happily.

"God. Minjeong, you will be my demise." He sighed before Winter turned around and kissed him, "as long as I get to stay with you, through demise and all," she said between the kisses.

-

[10] The office furniture procurement department would later note an unusual request for "enhanced stability features" in executive seating, though they wisely chose not to inquire further.

[11] The building's environmental controls registered what could only be classified as "Critical Temperature Fluctuation - Executive Override Protocol Engaged."

-

Evening painted Seoul's skyline in shades of amber and gold, the office gradually emptying as another corporate day drew to a close. Only the executive floor maintained signs of life, though its usual efficiency had given way to something far more intimate[12].

"We should go home," Minjeong murmured against Junho's shoulder, though she made no move to leave her position in his lap. His shirt had long since been unbuttoned, her blouse delightfully rumpled, both their professional facades thoroughly compromised.

"Should we?" His fingers traced lazy patterns up her spine, his other hand still possessively curved around her hip. "I rather like having my secretary exactly where she is."

She lifted her head to meet his gaze, finding that unique blend of authority and affection that never failed to make her heart race. "Your secretary has plans for you."

"Oh?" His interest visibly peaked. "More performance reviews?"

"Better." She smiled, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'm cooking you dinner. Besides, breakfast was skipped."

The surprise in his expression made her laugh softly. "You don't have to-"

"I want to," she interrupted, then added with deliberate sweetness, "Unless my CEO is refusing a direct offer from his girlfriend?"

His hands tightened on her waist. "Using that title to manipulate me now?"

"Is it working?" She bit her lip, watching his eyes darken at the gesture.

Instead of answering, he pulled her into a kiss that suggested dinner might be delayed[13]. When they finally broke apart, his smile carried dangerous promise. "Your place or mine?"

"Yours," she decided, fingers playing with his collar. "Your kitchen needs christening properly."

His laugh rumbled through both their bodies. "Just the kitchen?"

"We'll see how dinner goes," she teased, then squeaked as he stood suddenly, lifting her with him. "준호야!"

"Efficient time management," he explained, setting her on her feet but keeping her close. "The sooner we leave..."

She pressed against him, deliberate and knowing. "The sooner you can help me... cook?"

"Among other things," he agreed, already reaching for his jacket. The predatory grace in his movements suggested cooking might not be the evening's primary activity[14].

-

[12] Security logs would note this as the third consecutive evening of "Extended Executive Hours," though the actual nature of these extensions remained diplomatically unrecorded.

[13] The office's automated systems began learning to expect these end-of-day delays, adjusting power consumption accordingly.

[14] The kitchen's motion sensors would later flag unusually high activity levels, though whether any actual cooking occurred remained a matter of some debate.

Fin

I fixed some stuff that I executed poorly before, like the crazy amount of math references; which, in foresight, was far too much.

I really had to get this out quickly. Now, I think it's a good idea to not expect anything from me for an entire month (hopefully not).

hope u enjoyed.

I Never Meant to Memorize Your Smile

Gawon x Male Reader

18k words

Tags: 18+, smut, slowburn, friends to lovers, fluff, romance

Chapter 1: Routine

You watch as the snow settles on the window ledge, each flake an indication of how memory accumulates-not in the neat, chronological layers you'd prefer, but in drifts and eddies that defy architecture, unruly and wily. You feel the delicate carpet fibers shift under you, and somewhere in the house, a clock strikes three with the kind of authoritative chime that only comes from timepieces worth more than the median house[1].

The Rolls Royce catches your eye through the frost-limned glass, its Spirit of Ecstasy hood ornament looking less like an emblem and more like an ancient goddess frozen mid-ritual. Its tinted surface fragments the weak winter light into prismatic shards that paint the circular drive's imported cobblestones. You could trace the lineage of each stone back to some Italian quarry where rights were forgoed in favor of the owners' pockets, no doubt-everything here has a pedigree, a provenance, a story that starts with old money and ends with older power.

The family that owns and resides in this place is comically, truly bound to the stereotype. The father, whose passions include more than just the mother, is a weak-willed man with a soft heart for his family. The mother is a cobra that has an iron-tight grip on the household business, and of course, she allows the father to peruse his choice selection of slightly-younger-but-not-that-young women.

And then there's Gawon-god, Gawon. She's always curled by the window seat, afternoon light catching the sharp angle of her jaw, the delicate curve of her neck. With a copy of Pride and Prejudice lying forgotten on her lap as she watches snowflakes spiral past the glass. You've tried to catalog her imperfections like a scientist documenting a new species, but the field notes always come up blank. Then always, like clockwork, she turns her head, catches you staring, and she gives that gorgeous little grin[3].

-

[1] re: wealth-as-useless-measurement-system: turns out having a clock worth more than most people's houses doesn't help at all with calculating important things like the exact curve of Gawon's smile or the statistical probability of her catching you staring (current count: approximately every 7.3 minutes which would be embarrassing if you had any dignity left but that ship sailed somewhere between inheritance and the first time she fell asleep on your shoulder).

[2] status update on your-relationship-with-inherited-wealth where: somehow you've gone from counting pennies to counting marble tiles but the only numbers that actually matter = the precise duration of Gawon's laugh / the exact pressure of her head against your shoulder / the specific softness of her thigh.

[3] re: memory-allocation-priorities: fascinating how your brain has decided to delete basically all useful information to make room for an encyclopedic knowledge of Gawon-specific data including but not limited to: every single reading position she's ever assumed / the exact way sunlight refracts off her hair / that specific head-tilt she does when she's a little surprised (see also: how you're basically a walking Gawon-database at this point but somehow still can't find your keys).

-

The afternoon light filters through the library windows in lazy coin slots, catching dust motes that dance like they've seen heaven. You're lost in Murakami's prose when her voice breaks through your flow, smooth as aged whiskey: "You know, you could've just asked me what my favorite books are."

"Hm? What're you talkin' about?"

"Every book I see you with was definitely taken from my library." Her rich accent wraps around each syllable like silk. It's the kind of voice that makes you understand why ancient sailors threw themselves into the sea at the mere suggestion of song.

You lift the well-worn copy of Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, feeling its familiar weight. Murakami's particular brand of reality-adjacent storytelling feels appropriate for moments like these, when the boundaries between what is and what could be blur at the edges. "I'm just feeling a little reminiscent, you know," you murmur, briefly raising your head from where it rests against her thigh before settling back into that familiar warmth. "A kindle will only bring you so far on a Winter day, let alone a melancholic one."

Your head presses deeper into the cradle of her leg-a gesture as natural as breathing, born from many afternoons just like this one. "Don't be so overprotective of your Murakami books, I swear I won't bite it."

"I'm not worried about that-I just feel the need to gatekeep you from the midpoint of a Murakami book." The words dance with playfulness, and you can hear the smile in her voice. It's so perfectly her that something in your chest aches.

"Now that's unforgivable." You reply.

"I know." Two simple words, but she infuses them with such deliberate mischief that you feel yourself being drawn further into her orbit, like a planet stuck to the Sun's elliptic trajectory.

"Any last words?"

"Mmmm... that's a deep question. I really don't know." Her voice carries that particular bratty lilt that you've come to recognize as an invitation to play.

"What about... 'I am a war criminal'?" The suggestion spills from your lips before you can catch it, absurd and perfect in its impossibility.

"Hmm... fitting, but I wouldn't say that." Her fingers find their way to your hair, an unconscious gesture that speaks volumes about comfort and trust.

"You never know." You press back against her thigh in that particular way that's become its own language between you, a physical punctuation mark in your ongoing conversation. And before you know it, you're slowly enveloped in the quicksand that is Gawon's oration, and she's parallelly sinking to your witty comebacks.

-

Chapter 2, Garden

There's a particular kind of gravity that exists between two people who've grown together like intertwined vines-not quite family (I guess sort of adopted? But not even that, you were just randomly picked up one day, no paperwork, no nothing), and not merely friendship, but something that defies the neat categories others try to impose on you both. Your peers speak of siblings with the weary grudges that they emphasize over and over, while you and Gawon occupy a space that language struggles to define. "Not siblings," you both insist, though the words feel inadequate to capture the peculiar orbit you share[1].

The harmony between you is a compatible ecosystem, consisting of the most sublime peace and the smallest disagreements, yet these weigh heavy on your soul, and hers too. Every disagreement carries the weight of Greek tragedy, every reconciliation feels like cosmic realignment. Perhaps that's why you find yourself growing addicted to this precise frequency of connection-this perfect tranquility that forever looms over you.

These thoughts drift through your consciousness like autumn leaves on a still pond as you bend over your work, until-

Rap, rap-rap, rap

The knock carries its own personality, a rhythm as familiar as your own heartbeat. Gawon's head appears around the doorframe, her face peaking half-way past the door frame.

"I miss you." Three words, delivered with that particular inflection that makes them sound both like a confession and a scolding. The dependency in her voice mirrors your own unspoken need, a realization that should probably worry you more than it does[2].

"Me too, but I have to finish this quickly." The words scrape against your throat like sandpaper, foreign and unwelcome. It's physically painful to prioritize anything over her company, and you both know it.

She accepts your answer with a pout that somehow manages to convery the full range of her emotions, but most of all, her mature resignation. As she withdraws, her hair catches passes close by, a deliberate flourish that sends a wave of her perfume rolling to you-lilac and gooseberries, the scent an exquisite and emphatic deliberation of her last-second tease. The fragrance lingers like a ghost.

-

[1] Everyone loves throwing around words like "codependent" and "boundaries" (as if the DSM-V is some kind of relationship bible), but they miss how sometimes two people just click in that impossible way where separation feels like trying to divide zero by itself-technically possible but fundamentally absurd.

[2] The linguistic paradox of "missing" someone who's literally ten feet away in the same house would be funny if it weren't so accurate-like how your chest does that stupid ache thing every time she leaves a room, which is probably not normal but hey, neither is inheriting your best friend along with a mansion.

-

Several Hours Later

Winter light pools on the Aquitainian marble like honey, radiating its polished surface. Gawon's voice drifts down to you, carrying that particular velvety rich and deep concern: "Do you seriously have to work so hard all the time? I mean, look at the floor, it's marble from the Aquitainian courts."

Her pout should be registered as a controlled substance-it's certainly addictive enough. The intended scolding dissolves into something far more endearing, and you find yourself sinking deeper into the comfort of her lap. "Gawon, my hubris... my hubris, it's an addiction," you murmur, letting yourself drift beneath the warm pressure of her hand over your eyes. She claims it's to spare herself from unflattering angles-a ridiculous notion of her impostor syndrome[1].

"I've got nothing to do this winter, can't we travel or something?" The particular lilt in her voice is deliberate, a carefully crafted lure. And like always, you bite-hook, line, and sinker.

"Japan?"

The word transforms in her echo-like watching lilac oil flow in perfect laminar streams. A pinkish blush paints her cheeks as memories surface, completely visible even through the gaps between her fingers. "Japan?" she repeats, and somehow, the way she says Japan is just so much more poetic than the lazily-exasperated 'Japan' you let out[2].

"Japan. There's no other option." You draw her hand away from your eyes, loving the sight of her flustered expression-all feline grace and barely contained excitement. "I mean, you control the finances, dear."

"Let's not act like our parents don't adore you." The scoff carries no real bite, but that word-'our'-settles in your chest like warm brandy. "They don't even hesitate when you ask them for something, especially expensive stuff, and you know how our parents are, heir-to-be."

You've learned to wear privilege like a well-tailored suit-comfortable but never forgotten. The title of 'heir-to-be' sits heavy on your shoulders, far from the days of complete squalor, though you wear the title with practiced ease[3].

"Do you have a problem with me being the heir?" You joke.

"No. I'm just afraid you might over-work yourself for expectations, and I hope you don't forget how much our parents adore you." Her insight cuts clean and true, as always-a heart of gold gift wrapped in velvet silk.

"Gawon, enough, I'm really about to sleep."

"Go ahead. I don't mind the prickly sensation of my blood constricting in my lap."

"Now I feel ba-" The protest dies as her hand presses more firmly over your eyes.

"Don't bother. Sleep."

Her command carries you into darkness, sweet and absolute.

-

[1] re: the imbalanced equation of Gawon's self-perception where: empirical evidence (exhibits A-Z) = literal goddess walking among mortals BUT her internal processing unit keeps generating these absolutely unhinged error messages about "unflattering angles" which is kind of like watching someone apologize for the sun being too bright except the sun is actually her face and you're basically going blind from staring.

[2] linguistic analysis of Japan-as-spoken-concept where version A (you) = tired exhale of consonants BUT version B (Gawon) = somehow transforms same syllables into entire poetry anthology?? like watching someone turn basic phonetics into liquid gold through sheer force of being Gawon which honestly tracks with everything else she does including but not limited to: making your name sound like it belongs in a museum, turning basic sentences into emotional warfare, etc.

[3] current status of heir-related cognitive dissonance: trying to reconcile past-you (who once thought fancy feast was actually fancy) w/present-you (who's currently using what's probably a GDP-of-small-nation marble floor as mattress) while Gawon keeps doing this thing where she worries about your work-life balance as if you wouldn't literally reorganize the solar system if she asked??? which is probably exactly why she worries but that's a feedback loop for another day.

-

Consciousness returns like tide washing over sand, incrementally, you gain consciousness every moment. The weight of lilac petals seems to press against every inch of your skin-not a burden but a blessing. Your heartbeat has found a new rhythm, slower and deeper, as if your body is trying to stretch each second into relative infinity.

But time refuses to be still, even for moments of perfect peace. The world shifts, realigns, and your eyes open to find Gawon looking at you with the groggy, warm smile that she always greets you with in the mornings; signature triple-fold creases appear at her eyes-a detail you've memorized like her favorite poem's contents; Her gaze finds yours, warm with satisfaction at the fading shadows beneath your eyes. "You slept well," she says, not a question but a quiet celebration.

The admission sits in your throat: that her lap has become your sanctuary, more effective than any pharmaceutical promise of rest. It's the kind of vulnerability that makes you want to look away, except looking away from Gawon has never been even attempted (that's how hopeless it is). Your control is futile when there's a bundle of peace right next to you.

"Seems so," you manage, voice rough with sleep, each word carrying the weight of deep rest.

Her next words come soft and hopeful, wrapped in that particular tone she reserves for shared rituals: "Episode-uhmm... 10?" The suggestion floats in your ear, serenading you in that particular tradition that you've always loved to share with her.

-

Chapter 3, Revelation

Some days arrive like invitations to surrender-soft-edged and seductive in their simplicity. Productivity usually sings its wretched growl, but it's drowned out by the wispful pull of Gawon's presence, by the promise of hours stretching out like honey dripping from a spoon. The day catches you both in its trap-guilty as it is, it's still so sweet and so irresistible[1].

the goosefeather couch welcomes you back like an old confidant. Gawon folds herself into its embrace, legs tucked beneath her with that particular grace that makes your eyes stick . As the drama progresses, so does the usual routine: the popcorn creates a rhythm between you-crunch, pause, crunch-as she nestles against your side, fitting perfectly into the space your arm creates around her shoulders.

On screen, the k-drama unfolds predictably-a guilty pleasure you both pretend to critique while religiously consuming every episode. It's the kind of show that's more about the watching than the watched, more about these shared moments of commentary than any actual plot.

"When do you think they'll kiss?" The words tumble from her lips between crunches of popcorn. "This is kind of getting ridiculous, you know, the entire point of the show is that they kiss!" Her frustration blooms like a flower, beautiful in its futility[2].

"Liqueur," you suggest, the word materializing between her thoughts. She turns, and suddenly her face is close enough that you can count her eyelashes, map the subtle variations in her iris, the complete magnitude of those doe-like, boba-like, whatever-the-fuck-that's-huge-and-adorable-like.

"Drinking today is a bad bet, we're notoriously bad drinkers... and tomorrow... it's the trip." The obvious suggestion, the most reasonable slowly loses its umph the more she tries to push the conventional out. Each iterative syllable is weakened by the possibility of the familiar ethanol.

Some secrets require liquid courage to surface, some inhibitions beg to be dissolved. You watch her whisper protests to herself, each one fainter than the last, while you-veteran of countless such surrenders-simply let the inevitable bind you tight. The glass tips, clear liquid catching the light, the green grenadine turning into some blood-like consistency before disappearing past your lips. Though grenadine's sweetness has long since abandoned the mixture, leaving only the clean burn of ethanol in your esophagus[3].

Gawon shifts closer, drawing the cashmere blanket across your tangled legs. "Let's not go too far this time, hm? We have the Japan trip tomorrow," she murmurs into your shoulder, her voice pitched high with affected restraint.

Minutes pass in demure sips, each of you playing at moderation while the room grows softer around the edges. Then, as if pulled by some invisible thread, your eyes meet hers. The world pauses.

-

[1] re: empirical evidence suggests normal physics ceases functioning entirely which explains how your Very Expensive Education fails to account for the way time keeps doing this thing where it simultaneously stops and accelerates whenever she's using you as a cat tower, vis a vis wrapping her entire body around you (bonus phenomena: the way your heart keeps forgetting basic rhythm when she breathes against your neck).

[2] current status of k-drama-as-emotional-catalyst: watching her get increasingly invested in fictional romance while literally sitting in your lap creates this fascinating paradox where she's simultaneously complaining about characters not kissing while unconsciously playing with your fingers which is probably going to send you into cardiac arrest but like in a good way.

[3] re: whiskey-as-plot-device except this time it's expensive: turns out Yamazaki makes an excellent substitute for actual courage while also providing plausible deniability for the way her thumb keeps drawing circles on your palm (see also: how you're both pretending this is normal best-friend behavior while your pulse does gymnastics).

-

Laughter spills from her, her thin hands clap together as she falls back into the couch. "We're so drunk! What the hell!" The words, light as champagne bubbles. Your protest-"I'm not"-falls flat against the betrayal of your flushed, burning cheeks, drawing another cascade of giggles from her throat[1].

Reality settles over you like a warm blanket as you press cold palms against burning cheeks, sinking deeper into the couch. "I'm gonna have a migraine tomorrow. God dammit." The silence that follows feels fantastically usual, the sort of silence that two people love sharing.

"Oppa." The word falls from her lips like a stone onto your ears.

"What?"

"Can you hug me for a minute?" The request hangs between you, deceptively simple. Your arms find their way around her thin frame, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought hesitates. Her body fits against yours like a missing puzzle piece, her chin finding that precise spot where neck meets shoulder. "I-I'm sorry, I always get all sappy when I'm drunk."

"Gawon, I'm here." The words come out stronger than intended, your arms tightening around her as if to anchor this moment in reality. She is everything good and pure-heart perpetually displayed on her sleeve, philanthropy running through her veins like a bloodtype. Your grip firms, becoming a physical manifestation of appreciation[2].

Her arms snake around your ribs, seeking their own journey. "You should hug me more often," she murmurs, her warm-to-the-touch cheek pressing against your neck with deliberate intent. "I know. I must've been ignoring our poor Gawon."

The position is awkward-almost kneeling on the couch to maintain optimal contact-but physical discomfort feels irrelevant against the mental earthquake occurring beneath your skin. Her touch sends electricity down your spine, while her scent-lilac and gooseberries-wraps around you like a spell. Her heartbeat pulses against you, a determined little bird testing the strength of its cage.

"You're warm," she hums, each brush of your chin against her scalp drawing forth something between a purr and a sigh.

"I'm warm and I'm here, even better." Her laugh rewards you, soft and genuine.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For this. I feel like you hate it."

"Who said I hated it?" In fact, you loved it.

"Maybe, maybe I had an influx of regrets come in," she confesses, burrowing deeper into the sanctuary of your neck.

"Tell me the entire list and I'll tell you why you're the perfect person and why each decision of yours was optimal." Another squeeze, another laugh.

"Gosh. You're so creepy," she laughs against your neck, the vibration of it sending shockwaves through your nervous system.

-

[1] re: sobriety = carefully maintained force field of "just friends" BUT alcohol = temporary suspension of said force field while simultaneously constructing new equally ridiculous force field labeled "we can blame this on the Yamazaki tomorrow" which creates this fascinating paradox where you're both perfectly aware of what's happening but also somehow convinced you're getting away with something???

[2] status update on touch-based communication protocols: turns out there's this entire dictionary of meaning hidden in the way her fingers keep finding yours under tables / the specific pressure pattern of her head against your shoulder / the morse code of synchronized heartbeats when she gets too close.

-

The question hangs between you like suspended starlight: "Do you want it or what?"

"Maybe a little. Just a little though." Her voice carries that particular tremor that shines when she's truly vulnerable, which also comes with a package of a firm hug and her cheeks planted against yours-not that you're averse to it or anything.

"And I'd do anything for that little bit." You say-you would wage wars for your Gawon, rearrange constellations if she asked.

"Ok, only because it's you." Gawon peeps out, even more red-cheeked from her sizzling vulnerability, but she begins to gain that resolve, iron-steeled, gossamer-thin but unbreakable.

"First," she pauses, gathering courage like loose change, "I wish I'd completed the degree."

"Pft." The sound escapes before you can catch it.

"What?" Surprise colors her voice, a watercolor bleeding at the edges.

"Seriously? A college degree? You've seen my friends right?" Her nod encourages you forward. "Biggest airheads-the biggest ever, but they're fun to be around, and I know it's a sort of rudimentary generalization, but they're all like that, I swear."

Her giggle ripples through the space between you. "More."

"Hmm. You want me to guess your insecurity?"

Her hum of confirmation vibrates against your skin, electric and intimate.

"Let me guess: an inferiority complex, the need to self-deprecate? You're such a beautifully lovely and scarily smart woman. I still remember when you gave me a copy of The Idiot, it's still in the deepest crevice of my pile, wrapped in an ornate gold leaf package to prevent any damage." You say, and you felt Gawon's familiar happy vibration against your neck. "Now stop romanticizing your suffering and relax."

Your hand finds its way down her spine, getting that slight jolt of her body, and a particular purr-the one that you really had to hear all the time. "I'll always cheer you on, from the start of time until the end."

Her warmth melted into yours as that intoxicating perfume rewrote the atmosphere around you. Her pulse quickened beneath your touch, soft fingertips exploring the nape of your neck, raising gooseflesh in their wake.

"How did we come to find each other?" The question emerges spontaneously, but it was truly a question that you both thought of.

"Life is cruelly unfair, and we hit the jackpot." Thirty minutes of embrace feel like seconds, yet your knee protests its awkward angle. "Do you wanna stop? The hug I mean."

"No, let me sit on your lap." Gawon seemed to pick up on the fact that you were destroying your knee. The proceeding movement was fluid, graceful-feline in nature. She repositions herself, facing you, and suddenly the world narrows-tunnel vision only on those eyes, intoxicating in its entirety.

"Good idea," you manage, surrendering to her encompassing warmth.

The pause that follows carries weight, possibility. "You-nevermind."

"What?" Curiosity pulls at you.

"You're so ideal, I hope you know that, Mr. Walking-Green-Flag."

"I don't know about that." You say, truthfully,

"Yah... Why.." Her fingers still their circular exploration, instead anchoring around your back.

"I don't deserve that title." The attempt to redirect attention falls flat.

-

Her confession pierces the alcohol-warmed air between you, her chin pressing into your trapezius like a punctuation mark. "I don't think I'll find anyone like you in a billion lives and more." The words carry the weight of hours spent gathering courage, of thoughts distilled through sickly-sweet-blood-like liqueur. "I seriously mean that, and don't bother talking about how you act differently with me than the others... Honestly, that makes it more charismatic-if we're being honest here."

Something molten stirs in your chest, dangerous and sweet. "Now that you say it-" Your fingers find her side, testing the boundaries of this newfound boldness, "you might be right."

The air grows thick with possibility, with things unnamed. You're fitted together like nested matryoshka dolls, like those exquisite Siberian fur gloves that speak of winters and warmth. Suddenly, a selfish question bubbles up from somewhere beneath your ribs: "Do you act differently with me than you do with others?"[1]

"Gosh, now that you say it: I'm realizing how clingy I am." Her laugh carries that familiar edge of self-deprecation, sharp enough to draw blood. "But, to answer your question, yes; of course, no one will ever see this side of me-ever."

"Ever? That's ambitious."

"Ever. I might die if I act like this with someone else."

"I'm *glad*." The word escapes like a secret breaking free of its cage, a truth you meant to keep locked in the vault of your subconscious.

"Glad? Oohh... I guess my clinginess is rubbing off on you." Her laugh vibrates against your neck-closer now, impossibly closer-sending electrical currents down your spine that gather like storm clouds in your lower belly. Heat blooms, urgent and undeniable, a rush of blood and wanting that threatens to shatter every careful boundary you've constructed[2].

Panic rises like tide, and you grasp for escape: "Gawon, let's dance, I'll play some classic music, let's end off the day."

She accepts the offered diversion with grace, perhaps preferring the safety of dance with her dearest friend to the dangerous territory of prolonged embrace. You make your way to the vinyl player with the distinctive gait of someone carrying a secret, each step a negotiation between desire and dignity. The antique player-worth more than some cars-sits ready with its classical vinyl, offering salvation through Tchaikovsky and distance[3].

-

[1] CONFESSION ANALYSIS v2.3: Consider the specific gravity of alcohol-induced truth-telling re: parallel universes (n=1,000,000,000+) where somehow her chin against your shoulder creates this feedback loop of [a] things you're not supposed to notice like how her voice gets all molten when she talks about you specifically and [b] things you definitely notice anyway such as: heartbeat irregularities / respiratory pattern changes / that thing where her fingers keep finding excuses to touch you = probably cardiac event incoming but like in a good way???

[2] EMERGENCY BROADCAST RE: PHYSICAL PROXIMITY PROTOCOLS: Warning: subject (Gawon) currently generating enough electricity through neck-adjacent laughter to power small city while target (you) experiences total systems failure including but not limited to: inability to remember why best friends shouldn't catalog each other's breathing patterns / complete loss of self-preservation instinct / sudden onset of wanting-to-combust-but-in-a-sexy-way syndrome (side effects may include: sweating, elevated heart rate, desperate need to say something stupid like "I love you").

[3] TACTICAL RETREAT VIA OVERPRICED VINYL: Or, How to Pretend Dancing with Your Best Friend Isn't More Intimate Than Whatever Was Happening Five Minutes Ago--A Case Study in Self-Delusion featuring: one (1) antique record player (cost > average sedan) + one (1) Tchaikovsky vinyl (difficulty level: impossible) × two (2) idiots performing elaborate "just friends" choreography while actively ignoring how this is basically vertical cuddling with classical accompaniment.

-

She sheds off her slippers-Gawon's bare feet meets the Berber carpet with the deliberate grace of a pagan priestess dancing in the winter dawn. Her silken nightgown catches light and shadow in equal measure, flowing like water around her frame, a mirror to the dark cascade of her hair. She traces your path to the vinyl player with measured steps. Years of training have merely polished what nature gifted her: perfection; you surrender to her expertise in this one domain, knowing some battles are better lost[1].

Tchaikovsky emerges from vinyl's gentle static, cutting through the loudest silence. The Waltz of the Flowers unfolds note by note. Gawon approaches through this soundscape like a figure stepping out of an impressionist painting-each movement a carefully calculated brushstroke, each pause an intentional addition.

You extend your arm towards her. Her acceptance carries the weight of ceremony, fingers entwined with yours in that sensual prosperity that seemed to grow every second. She leads without leading, guides without pushing-her movements as natural as powdery thick snow, as inevitable as the passage of time. The air grows thick with your contact, with shared breath, and the faint background process of imagining what could happen (which frankly, needn't be discussed)[2].

"Remember when you first taught me to lead?" You say, your voice deeper than intended, relaxed from her presence. Her nightgown flutters along the curve of the dance, bare feet tracing perfect lines along the carpet. Each movement feels like watching physics rearrange itself to accommodate her presence, like witnessing a branch spontaneously sprouting blossoms.

"You were terrible." Laughter catches in her throat like a startled bird suddenly when you guide her through a turn that narrows the world to points of contact: palm against palm, the curved warmth of her waist beneath your hand, your large hand feeling the entirety of her waist, and the ghost of her hair's perfume drawing you closer with each revolution.

You move together like question and answer, each push met with pull, each advance answered with retreat. Her eyes find yours with dangerous ease-wide with wine and wonder, yet still holding that impossibly aristocratic grace with her. Every point where bodies meet becomes its own story: the heat of joined hands, the silk-draped curve of her waist beneath your palm, the intermittent cloud of floral-scented air that follows her motion like a contrail[3].

-

[1] PRE-DANCE PHENOMENA: Subject [G] approaches vinyl player in silk nightgown while observer's brain executes emergency shutdown. See also: how carpet fibers bend under her feet like they're apologizing for existing.

[2] Note: attempting to maintain platonic thoughts while she does That Thing with her waist = exercise in futility.

[3] thing To NOTE: the way she keeps pretending she's not leading (she is) (you don't mind) (you're so screwed).

-

Time dissolves into the space between heartbeats, into the delicate architecture of shared breath and careful distance. Her whisper carries traces of mint tea, a ghost of earlier innocence; and liqueur: "You've improved." The words float. You've drifted closer than the dance demands, yet neither of you seeks to restore proper form.

"I had an excellent teacher." The confession emerges softly, nearly lost in the gravity of her gaze. Her fingers press into your shoulder-the smallest tell, a morse code of appreciation, then a more obvious tell, that beautiful smile-and you respond by drawing her nearer, each turn becoming more deliberate, more weighted with intent.

Something flutters in her eyes-surprise at your initiative perhaps, or recognition of something deeper. Yet her body remembers what her mind questions, bare feet moving in perfect synchronization with yours, as if you share a single nervous system, a single pulse.

"Close your eyes," you breathe, and she surrenders to darkness without hesitation, an example of how wholly she trusts you. Her chin finds your shoulder like a bird returning to its nest, and suddenly every point of contact becomes that much more searing: bosom to chest, the silky smooth of her cheek against yours, each brush of fabric a whispered suggestion of that perfect skin beneath.

The music races toward conclusion while you drift slower in time, caught desperately in her beauty. Every press of her chest against yours, each warm slide of silk-shrouded thigh against your pajamas, creates its own form of intoxicating, self-destructing, earth-moving tempetion. "You're so good at this now," she murmurs, and you grasp at levity: "Student outshines master?"

"You wish," comes her reply, soft laughter painting warmth across your cheek. That face-that impossible face with its silk-smooth skin occasionally gliding past yours-ignites something primal in you, a desperate need to perfect this moment, to continue to witness her face forevermore.

Questions spiral through your mind like coins in a fountain (but instead of coins, it's sharp pins that prickle your very sense of self): Is this deliberate? Are these brushes of contact calculated or coincidence? The sheer force of her beauty creates its own form of confusion, a pleasant drowning. "So lovely," escapes your lips like a prayer, and her response comes not in words but in the tightening of her embrace, the press of her cheek against yours becoming more deliberate, more certain, and even her voice too-velvety, lovely, fantastic.

"Are you ready for the ending?" Your hand traces lower, mapping the geography of her back until it hovers at the border of propriety. "Surprise me," she breathes, and something like a mewl escapes her at your wandering touch. In one fluid motion, you hook the small of her back, spinning her through a perfect arc before catching her weight against your arm. Her yelp of surprise carries enough voltage to wake the guard dog[1].

"Now, now-how was that?" Your grin feels foolish against the weight of her wide-eyed wonder. "That was... pleasantly surprising," she responds, voice soft as new snow.

Her eyes tell stories that words would only diminish-pools of affection deep enough to drown in. Those keen, sharp irises keep dropping to your lips like hints, like questions waiting to be answered. Everything good in the world seems to have condensed into her gaze, pupils blown wide with want and wine and possibility.

"Gawon..."

"Yes... please..." Her smile carries desperation and joy in equal measure, a perfect storm of emotion.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

-

[1] How many times can people almost-kiss before the Universe intervenes?

-

All that fucking wisdom and preaching all down the drain. Betraying your friendship for an inkling of something more, just a smidgen more. Every signal in your brain went hay-wire, every neuron fought against that singular neuron-the one that threatened the end of your life-long friendship.

Time crystallizes into a singular, exquisite moment-your arm still cradles her, her eyes brimmed with that desperate affection. The vinyl's soft crackle becomes white noise against your heavy pulse.

"I want you.

"

Her words hang in the air like gossamer, delicate yet unmoving. You're achingly aware of the warmth of her back against your supporting arm, the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingertips press into your shoulder with gentle insistence.

"We shouldn't," you whisper, but your body betrays you, drawing her closer until the space between you becomes theoretical-closer than the atoms of tight-knit titanium. Her breath catches, a small sound that sends ripples through your carefully constructed restraint-truly, a house of cards.

"Please," she breathes, and that single word carries the pure density of her unspoken longing. Her free hand traces up your neck, fingertips leaving trails of electricity in their wake until they find purchase in your hair-all five of her fingertips so conducively electric. The gentle pressure guides you down, and you follow-helpless as gravity.

The first brush of lips is tentative, questioning. She tastes of mint and possibility, of everything you've denied yourself-the hidden desires that you realize were 100% pining. Her lips are impossibly soft against yours, giving into everything you give her, and when she sighs into the kiss, the sound unravels the last threads of your resistance, even down to your tense knees-now relaxed.

You deepen the kiss, and she responds with an enthusiasm that makes your head spin with blurred vision. Her fingers tighten in your hair as your supporting arm draws her closer, eliminating even the smallest whisper of space between you. The kiss becomes desperate, hungry-years of repressed desire crystallizing into this single, electric moment.

Her other hand releases your shoulder to cup your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones with trembling reverence-every single trace so lovingly constructed to ruin you. The tenderness of the gesture contrasts sharply with the growing intensity of your shared passion. You trace your tongue along her lower lip, and she opens to you with a soft moan that sends sparks down your spine.

You meet tongue-to-tongue, her lips quivered with overwhelming pleasure, her initially soft grasp on your hair tightened every time you drove between her lips. She tasted so sweet, like an overripe plum that coats your entire hand in that sweet syrup, making a mess of everything-just like your morality, getting doused by Gawon's soft licks.

Time becomes fluid, measured only by the shared rhythm of your increasingly ragged breaths. Your free hand finds the small of her back, fingers splaying against silk as you support her weight. She arches at nearly an impossible angle into your touch, and the movement causes her nightgown to slip slightly, one strand falling off her shoulder, exposing more of her collarbone.

The reality of your situation crashes over you like ice water, like trauma against the back of your skull.

You break the kiss abruptly, though your body screams in fiery protest. Gawon's eyes flutter open, pupils dilated, lips slightly swollen from your attention, all ragged and hot and so fucking beautiful. The sight nearly breaks your resolve, again.

"We can't," you manage, voice rough. "This-we can't." Each sizzling syllabic transformation felt like another wrenched knife into your heart; like Julius unto you, Cicero unto stabbing you with realization, Brutus stabbing you with that horrible rejection.

Recognition, then realization dawns in her eyes, followed quickly by something that looks painfully like shame. You help her straighten, pulling up that dangerously low nightgown strap back to her shoulder, careful now to maintain proper distance as she finds her footing. The vinyl has stopped playing, leaving only the sound of your still-racing hearts.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, wrapping her arms around herself. The gesture makes her look small, vulnerable in a way that tears at your heart. "I shouldn't have..."

"No, I-" you start, but the words stick in your throat. What can you say? That you're sorry for wanting this? That would be a lie. That you're not sorry at all? That would be worse.

The space between you feels vast now, charged with the static electricity of what just transpired. Gawon takes a step back, her bare feet silent against the carpet, and you mirror the movement unconsciously.

"We should probably..." she gestures vaguely toward the hallway, unable to complete the thought.

"Yeah," you agree, equally lost for words. "The trip tomorrow..."

"Right. The trip." She nods too quickly, still not meeting your eyes. "I'm sorr-"

That's when you hug her again, "Gawon, please, there's nothing more heart-wrenching than seeing you so sad, it's all my fault."

"But that… that wasn't-"

"It was, it was entirely my fault. Let's forget this day. Let's never talk about this day."

She said nothing, a silent protest, a soft longing for you that you tried to ignore as best you could. You released her from the hug, and she went to her belongings that spread so messily during your moment of passion.

"Goodnight," you echo, watching as she retrieves her slippers with trembling hands and hurries from the room, saying one last goodbye before leaving you alone with the weight of what you've done-and the lingering taste of mint on your lips, nothing else could even compare to just the faint taste of that mint, intermixed with Gawon.

-

Chapter 4: Morning Troubles

Today was the day of the trip, the jet was scheduled to be at the airport at 2pm. Which was plenty of time to do things around the house, or not, considering the fact that you made out with the daughter of the house and your best friend for life.

But as you walked through the hallway with messy hair, swollen face, and a myriad of other ailments that comes with not getting a wink of sleep, you smelled breakfast. Oh god, it's gonna be so awkward. You thought as you walked further down, finally reaching the living room where you saw Gawon stirring. "Oh! You slept a little late today, didn't you?" She asked, as if she were completely oblivious of what happened yesterday. Good. The previous night needn't ever be talked about-yet you still felt that sentimental stir, like, you're really gonna forget kissing the hottest woman in the world?[1]

She seemed to have moved on, carrying on her own business casually. And not a single feature of hers seemed to be out-of-place, and if it was, it seemed purposeful, too beautiful to call it a defect.

"What? What are you looking at? Come, take a seat." She asked kindly.

-

The both of you sat on the long table. You sat next to Gawon, and today was no different, of course-even if that happened.

"Are you gonna tell me the place or what?" She asked, her voice warm with the grogginess of morning days. But between it all, you couldn't get your eyes off her lips-those sinful lips that were glossy, silky in all the right ways… and she most definitely felt the stare, flaring her lips out more-goading you on. Dammit.[2]

"Umm," you say, recuperating, "the place is Japanese, and opulent."

"Way to check off the hotels. Let's see, that ticks off about 5 hotels out of the seven hundred in Japan."

"Gawon. You'll love it. I promise," you press your hand on hers-delicate and small compared to yours, the imbalance… Dammit.

"I'm sure I will, as long as it's from you." Her hand turned up, meeting palm to palm, and it held your hand firmly. You pretended you didn't hear that, you pretended you didn't feel that warm affection in her hand-holding. Yet, every moment you pretended your soul cried out in existential torture.

She was testing you softly, gainfully, proactively-to see if you would still be willing, offering herself so delicately. And you couldn't fucking take it: any more goading and you would truly eclipse the worst of them all. "Gawon, please. Forget. About. Yesterday." You reply, harsher than you intended. Her grip softened, her eyes stared back, finally understanding, taking the two finished bowls to the kitchen-every step she took increased your heart rate by the dozen, almost exploding by the time she exited your perspective. It all becomes a haze, you wish you could just chase Gawon down and grovel for forgiveness, and most of all: you wish you could just kiss her one more time.

-

It was almost time for the jet to come, so you began collecting all the things you packed. Amidst this, Gawon came into your room, "hey, could you help me carry my luggage? I tried to limit myself with the number of luggage but now that singular one weighs like a boulder and a half." You looked back, her soft head was resting against the door frame, staring at you with a smile, all graceful, all benevolent. "Of course, just leave it in the hallway," you say back, grunting a little to get that last piece of cloth in your small luggage.

lh7-rt.googleusercontent.com

"I'm really sorry for earlier." She blurted out, "I want to maintain what we have-and, and- I just acted impulsive-"

Whatever you wanted to say would definitely be marred with desperation, so instead, you walked over to her, and you opened your arms. She melted against your hug, almost as if she were desperate for the warmth that only you could provide-only you…

"I'll be waiting in the car; I'll pass the estate key off to the guard and give Raskol one last pet, okay?" Her fingers pinched your shoulder softly before she pressed a soft peck on your cheek-something that was normal for both of you, but now, it took on a whole different meaning.

Finally, the luggage was carried out-the estate, locked-and you were finally ready to go ahead on that trip. After closing the trunk of the car, you looked at Gawon-she was bent down, petting the lazy old dog, scratching just behind his collar. And you waited, seeing her hair flutter against the cold air of the impending winter. "Gawon! I'm ready! Let's get going!"

"Okay!" She stood up, the cashmere coat that was wrinkled from her kneeling down just a minute ago looked like it was hung up on some model-the type of ones that trick you into buying them, then turn out to not look so good on you. It's getting unbearable, the way your breath catches everytime you steal a look at her. But how could you not? She smiled with such warmth, her elegant stature accentuated that warm smile, that pouty little smile, galaxies in place of eyes…

She hopped in the passenger seat, and nodded at you-a sign that she was ready. You exit the driveway and out the gate, open windows, breathing in the fresh dew in the air. "I know these cars are nice but are they really nice enough to have like 5 of the same?" You ask, the only thing that confused you about her father, "I don't know, it drives like a dream I guess? Maybe it's an asset." You hum back at Gawon's answer, then you reply, "sure drives like a dream."

Her soft hand slowly layered upon yours, and she murmured softly, "I'll play some music.

Chapter 5: Loving Plane

Fontaines D.C. fills the car with careful noise, a buffer against dangerous silence. Your head sways in unconscious rhythm, and through peripheral vision, you catch Gawon staring at you, her smile ticked upwards, her eyes warm.

"Liable for making me like Fontaines?" You ask, the words emerge.

"Guilty." Her fingers tighten around yours, and suddenly her touch becomes its own form of communication. Her gaze keeps finding the side of your face with magnetic inevitability, each glance at the road feeling like betrayal-as if the mere act of looking away might cause last night to dissolve like morning frost. And it's torture, remembering the past night, the morality of forgetting, or the pleasure of remembering.

The dance haunts her consciousness, refusing to be exorcised by daylight or distance. No fortune could purchase enough mental real estate to house other thoughts; no Midas touch could transmute this raw wanting into something more manageable. The cruelty lies in pretense-in having to act as if each casual touch hasn't been transformed into its own universe, as if friendship still provides adequate borders for what grows between you. Every brush of skin carries nuclear potential now, matter and anti-matter colliding in the space between intention and action.

She wonders if this is love-that mythical force that's eluded her understanding, reduced to literary devices and borrowed metaphors until now. Those beautiful words that seemed to exist only in fiction suddenly bloom into reality beneath her palm, pressed against yours like a secret trying to escape through skin. Self-control becomes its own form of artistry, each restrained impulse a brushstroke in a masterpiece of denial-any more of this: sincerely, she'd sell 80 million copies of her book.

Her thumb traces impossibly small circles on your hand as she searches for questions complex enough to warrant lengthy answers, desperate for the sound of your voice to fill the space that she no longer had the real estate to process.

"I know you don't wanna tell me where exactly it is, but can we talk about the activities at least?"

"What'd you have in mind?"

"Pilates."

Your expression shifts into that familiar thousand-yard stare, comic relief in the midst of tension. "Abso-fucking-lutely not."

"Why?"

"My entire left leg lost function somehow from doing that single stretch! Like, how does that happen? I didn't even do anything too intense but my entire leg was so sore that..." Words evaporate like morning dew when you make the mistake of meeting her gaze. Those eyes-those impossible eyes with their expanded pupils holding entire universes of unspoken truth, confessions coded in iris and intent.

The thought surfaces like a drowning man reaching for air: Will we ever be the same? The absurdity of your position crashes over you in waves-trying to maintain composure after nearly crossing every line with Gawon, mouth-fucking, french-kissing, spiling all that passion for a girl who's inexperienced and in the very house her parents so generously share with you. Their trust sits heavy as lead in your stomach, a weight that should anchor you to propriety but…

Gawon is sitting next you after all…

"I mean-I stood by your side at the bed, and I nursed you all day long, didn't I?" She scrunched her nose, mocking you slightly.

"Well-that. Wait, if I get injured, are you saying you'll do that again?"

"No guarantees-you'll have to perform well in the class." She said.

"You'd make an incredible saleswoman, Gawon," you reply, conceding.

"Is that you signing up for pilates?" She asked, excitedly.

"Maybe. But there are certain clauses you must accept," you reply.

Her hand tightened in excitement and she said, "Yes to all of them."

"That's settled then. Any other activities you had in mind?" You asked.

The car hummed against the layered asphalt. The outside was blue without a trace of a cloud, and opposing wind whistled as it hit the car. The road was unusually deserted, fallen leaves caused by autumn fall grazed the windshield, and the infinitesimal cocoon within the car proved to be so beautiful.

"Hm… cooking?" She asked, trying to strike a tease.

"Gawon, let's be real: thick rivulets of black mold began forming on the ceiling the day after I nearly burned down a metal kitchen."

"I don't think black mold had ever formed that quickly before," Gawon said as she reflected on the memorable experience.

"Exactly. Patient zero type shit. Instead of that, let's go on the regular rotation we usually go on."

"But that's a bit boring no? I mean, it's fun but don't you wanna have some new experiences?" She said, in a tone that hinted, you should be enjoying this trip, don't worry about me.

"I am just as averse to new experiences as you, Gawon. And frankly, the things that you do, the routines and such are far more fulfilling than any new experience could ever fathom to compete with." You looked back at her, and when you both met eyes, Gawon suddenly turned away, hiding her face with her palms.

"You're so cheesy!" She giggled.

Only for you, was what you wanted to say before your brain began functioning.

That familiar speed bump was the last checkpoint before you gave the valet your car. The noon haze was warm but cold, breaths came out as mist, but faces were painted in brilliant sunlight-unfortunately, making it hard to not to stare at Gawon dumb-faced for the remainder of pre-boarding.

Even under a private flight, where baggage check and all those stressful happenings are pushed aside, there would come another set of troubles. Things like the hospitality of the staff-though good-willed in nature, never seemed to remove the awkwardness of it all, saying things like, "wow! You guys are such a cute couple."

And then the both of you'd get apprehensively tongue-twisted trying to rebut the claim-every, single, time. And yet, Gawon never left your hand, grasping firmly, almost as if she were begging for these claims; and yet you too… never released that firm grasp.

After all that huff-and-puff, back-and-forth rebuttals of relationships that never were-the both of you finally entered the plane. The purposeful antiquity of the plane, opulent in all the right places; right enough to drive a nigh-narcissist to a serial murderer.

Gawon was already sat while you talked to the crew-one flight attendant and a pilot, enough for a short flight to Japan-and just for good measure, you kept her in your peripheral vision.

"Small talk? You're growing up too quickly." She whispered, smiling.

"You're 2 years younger than me, Gawon."

"Emotional maturity," she replied, smirking.

"Emotional maturity my ass, you were all stuck to me the entire day," you reply.

"I was just a bit cold."

"Bit is an understatement," you reply, sitting next to her, playfully bumping her with your shoulder.

Her pout carries playful accusation: "And you're being a bit of a douche." The words dance between you, light as champagne bubbles.

Something possessive stirs in your chest as you unhook the seatbelt, drawing her closer with a hand on her shoulder. "Gawon, sweet Gawon, how shall I right my wrongs?" Firmly holding her while pressing soft kisses into her hair[1].

"Continue doing whatever you're doing right now." Her voice attempts command but fails miserably-her body melting under every slight touch that you rewarded her.

"Alright." The sigh escapes as your fingers find her shoulder, memory painting it bare and golden in candlelight, an image that haunts the edges of your consciousness like a beautiful ghost seeking form.

The plane's ambient hum creates a cocoon of white noise, a world reduced to essential elements: the silk of her hair between your fingers, that signature perfume that's become more familiar than your own heartbeat, the soft percussion of her breath. The first-class luxury surrounding you fades to irrelevance compared to the perfect weight of her head nestled against your neck.

"I miss Sooin," she confesses, her breath painting warmth across your skin in delicate brushstrokes.

"How is she?"

"Not bad, just a little trouble getting started with the art publications."

"And, let me guess, she's in Tokyo for an art show?" The question emerges loaded with full confidence.

"Kyoto."

The single word zaps you still. Something shifts in the atmosphere between you as she burrows deeper into your embrace: "That was a thoughtful guess, but she's in Kyoto."

You disentangle yourself with careful precision, each movement measured to disguise the urgency propelling you toward the cockpit.

"James, change of plans: Kyoto. Now."

James meets your demands with professional restraint: "But sir, there'll be a hefty fee-"

"I'll pay for everything, get to Kyoto A-S-A-P." Money becomes abstract in the face of possibility, in the chance to transform her casual wish into reality[2].

When you return, her smile illuminates the cabin like captured starlight, those perfect eyes brilliant with a happiness that makes your chest ache. "You big softie!" The exclamation comes with an armful of Gawon, her lips pressing joy into your cheekbone in a series of butterfly kisses.

Words fail you, lost in the heat blooming across your face, in the way your mind dissolves beneath her affection. You respond in the language of touch instead, pulling her closer with urgent tenderness, her back arching into your embrace like a bow drawn taut with possibility.

-

[1] Some performances become truth in the playing-pretense dissolving into authenticity between one heartbeat and the next.

[2] Money exists as theory until it becomes the currency of joy-fifty thousand dollars a small price for the light in her eyes.

[3] Touch creates its own vocabulary in moments like these, speaking volumes in the pressure of fingertips and the curve of spine.

-

Chapter 6: Landing

Sooin's voice carries across the arrivals hall like a burst of summer in winter-all infectious joy. Gawon's eyes find yours in that moment of recognition, confusion melting into something softer when you say, "anything for you." Some truths are better spoken simply.

Their reunion unfolds with the kind of unreserved joy that makes strangers smile in passing. Gawon, usually so careful about public displays, lets herself be swept up in Sooin's embrace. You approach at your own pace, watching the way happiness reshapes their features, until Sooin's enthusiasm includes you too. Her hug is brief but genuine-and in your peripheral vision, you catch the subtle darkening of Gawon's expression, her gaze finding sudden fascination with the floor.

The moment passes. You let Sooin's natural effervescence fill the spaces between breaths as she leads you to the parking lot. Her blue Jeep sits there like her slight frugality-slightly worn but loved, practical. "Well, this is it! It's an awesome car," she announces, pride evident in every syllable.

"Seems like it," you and Gawon echo, sharing irony like a private joke.

The drive becomes its own kind of meditation. Their conversation flows around you-a comfortable stream of consciousness touching on everything from current trends to their mothers' cooking. You let yourself drift in Kyoto's crisp air, catching fragments of your name in their discussion when they think you're not listening.

Sooin's home reveals itself as a perfect contradiction to your usual surroundings. Where you're used to echoing halls and marble statements, her space wraps around you like a well-worn sweater. Small rooms hold big dreams, and every corner feels lived-in, loved.

Gawon's voice carries that particular note of genuine appreciation as she explores Sooin's space: "This is so lovely. When did you get such a nice place?"

"I don't know, it just happened," Sooin replies before shifting topics with practiced ease. "Oh by the way, did you guys already reserve a place?"

Your shared "No" with Gawon emerges in perfect synchronicity-these moments of unconscious harmony that have become more frequent. Each one feels like evidence being gathered against the both of you.

Sooin's suggestion to help comes with that particular emphasis that makes your pulse quicken: "absolutely the best place for the both of you." The words carry implications in and of itself, but most likely not, she's too benign for that. Your reluctant agreement feels like stepping onto ice without knowing its thickness.

The cookie bowl that Sooin pointed out to provides welcome, Sooin's pride in her creation evident in her posture. When Gawon takes her first bite, her expression transforms-eyebrows knitting in surprise, a soft hum of pleasure escaping. "Mm! Sooin, seriously, you have a career to fall back-seriously." The words tumble out between delicate bites, and you find yourself mirroring her reaction, though quieter.

Then Sooin's observation drops like a stone: "I feel like I noticed something: you guys are definitely closer."

Your grip fails on the chair-a tell you pray goes unnoticed. "How so?" The question emerges calm despite the sudden panic in your mind.

"I don't know, you guys are just much closer. I mean look, you guys are shoulder-to-shoulder now!"

The realization hits like static shock-the unconscious way you've drifted into each other's space, seeking proximity like planets falling into orbit. The separation that follows feels performed, theatrical in its suddenness.

"We're just getting older, friends get closer that way, you know?" Your explanation sounds hollow even to your ears, though Gawon's quick nod attempts to reinforce it.

"Wait, did you guys do something while I was gone?"

Gawon's voice catches, stumbles: "U-Um what?"

"You're being so suspicious!"

"About what?" You sit straighter, as if good posture might disguise guilt.

The relief when she asks about missed travel plans instead of tantamount to an explosion. And in parallel, a fabricated Bora Bora story emerges smooth as silk, practiced in the art of necessary fiction.

Her pout in response-"Whyyyy, I would've made the time no matter what..." -carries just enough genuine hurt to make your deception sting.

"Alright, we now know that we have to ask you beforehand, is that okay for you?" Usually, well, almost all the time, the 3 of you travelled around the world, so this particular affront was extremely personsal for Sooin.

She conceded, "alright, but you guys have to tell me…"

"Of course."

It was quiet for a bit, then Sooin stood up and went to the cupboard. She stood tip-toed to reach something. And by the time you gained a peek of what she was holding, you cursed under your breath. You and Gawon met eyes after the peek-presumably, she was also just as distressed. The minted logo, "山崎", it was obvious that it was aged Yamazaki whiskey[1].

"Well? Special occasions call for special occasions." She said, hopping gingerly over with three whisky glasses. The eye contact that the both of you maintained at that instantaneous moment said it all: we can drink right? I mean, it's our friend's celebration, surely, we can't decline.

Gawon demurely held the glass, her square-like eyes trying to calculate the implications of this generous pour. What happened that night, should be avoided at all costs, but we can have this one night right? Another speech done by her eye while staring at you, and it was so easy to read, large pupils, boba-like, glistening with the luxuriance that she carries with herself. And of course, you concede.

The first sip was the hardest, searing not in the ways that conventional ethanol constricted or inflamed your esophagus; rather, the possibilities that you could hide behind the haze of alcohol grew, almost large enough to sear your brain with all those debauched images.

And that first glance over, where you saw Gawon tipping the glass into her mouth-littlest of sips possible-revealed her sleek jawline and that soft sway of her long dark hair, silken under the warm candle-like tone of the entire room. But it was abruptly cut by Sooin, her hands were holding a 'Jenga' set, and she propped it up on the middle of the square table.

"When you called me about coming, I felt like I had to buy a drinking game to play as well, so I think this is some sort of Jenga with dares, I think." She said, not too sure of what she was even talking about.

You took a closer look, and it was labeled 'Sexy Edition'. "Sooin, this says it's a sexy edition," you say, and Gawon goes wide-eyed like an owl-neither a refusal or acceptance to join the game. "We can just skip those ones, I'm sure there's atleast a few decent ones, " Sooin says, without a single hint of sarcasm in her voice-optimistic, for sure.

The tension was dense, not enough to cut with a scissor, but everytime your hand and Gawon's grazed each other while building the tower, it felt harder to jolt back; rather, you felt in favor of just grasping that thin hand and kissing her over the table, destroying all that progress on the Jenga tower.

After the tower finished, the Jenga pieces began coupling at the top and hollowing in the bottom, yet each of those Jenga pieces were inscribed with dares that went far beyond just 'sexy'. In hopes of finding a mild one, Sooin picked one in the middle of the tower, and it read, "bite an article of clothing off another person," and to tell the truth, it was probably the mildest one yet.

--

[1] The worst part about it was that you guys can't really taste the difference between Yamazaki and other whiskeys, just an unnecessary expense.

-

Sooin blushed, but you and Gawon didn't say anything, hoping that maybe she'd decide to not do it (and the both of you would be perfectly fine with it). Yet Sooin pointed at Gawon, "let's do it, but first take a large swig, this is gonna be a little wild."

Gawon suddenly took a large swig of the initial fill from Sooin, then pointed out her bracelet--arguably a very boring item for game's sake-for Sooin to bite on. "Be careful where you bite," Gawon said, but her eyes told a different story-a little spooked, a little thrilled, and most of all, a little drunk.

Sooin giggled a little before going down to clamp down on the bracelet, softly pulling the item off her wrist. "There, it was fine right?" Sooin asked, "yeah it was fine," Gawon replied.

When Gawon draws that particular piece from the tower, something shifts in the atmosphere-a subtle reorganization of molecules around this moment of potential revelation. Her fingers move to tuck hair behind her ear, a gesture you've categorized among her ways of dealing with nervous anticipation[1].

"Um, the ideal type of person for me?" It was what the jenga block said, but came out like a question. Yet the words emerge careful, measured, like someone testing ice beneath their feet. "I guess, first of all, he should be a nice guy; second, a strong sort of stare, kind of possessive?" Each criterion feels like the playbook of the quintessential Machiavellian Prince-starting clear, becoming intentionally blurred. Sooin's nodding, her understanding perhaps deeper than either of you would prefer.

The questions that follow create their implications-Sooin didn't know it, but you were being tortured from the inside out. "Are you basing it off a guy you've met before?"

"Um, maybe."

Sooin's next observation lands with brilliant skepticism: "I know you've never been in a relationship before, or even dated." The emphasis feels deliberate, her words directed more toward you than Gawon (though you try to justify that it was your subconscious rather than Sooin suspecting you).

You watch Gawon's hand find the whiskey glass, lifting those last precious drops like liquid courage. When she speaks again, something has shifted--as if the alcohol has dissolved some essential filter between thought and voice.

"He's so unbelievably charming. He's ice but also cold, but also fluid in a way-if you get what I mean." Each word feels like confession, like testimony. "He's so caring and so protective-I feel like there's a soft protection barrier whenever I'm with him." Your muscles begin their own rebellion, tightening against recognition. "And, and- his activities, like books, writing, engineering; all of it requires some sort of focus, well, a lot of focus. And whenever I see him focusing, pupils dilated, focused entirely on that thing-" was the moment she suddenly put a palm on her mouth.

And worst of all, Sooin's gaze finds you, and suddenly breathing becomes a conscious act, actually, almost a conscious effort. "Hm, that man, you hang out with regularly, and..." Her eyes make that connection again, pieces falling into place. "I-"

"Who said it was the person I hung out with regularly?" Gawon's panic bleeds through, her interruption too quick, too sharp-a defense that could become its own evidence.

"Well from what you were saying, it seemed so."

"Maybe I'm just protecting the identity." The words emerge uncertain, her voice a far stray from her usual perspicacity.

The tension dissolves into Sooin's complaints about the game itself, her comment about the jenga block that just straight out said "vaginal penetration" serving as both comic relief and escape route. Yet something shifted, some truth emerged that can't be fully submerged again[2].

-

[1] EMPIRICAL OBSERVATIONS RE: GAWON'S NERVOUS TELLS

a) The Hair-Tuck Phenomenon: Frequency increases by 147% during moments of extreme emotional exposure. Compare:

- Normal rate: 2.3 tucks/hour

- Current rate: ~1 tick/15 seconds

- Peak recorded: That Night We Don't Discuss™

b) Secondary indicators include but are not limited to:

- Micro-adjustments of posture

- Slight tremor in usually-steady hands

- That thing where her voice gets higher but also softer???

c) Correlation with alcohol consumption suggests inverse relationship between BAC and ability to maintain "just friends" facade

(see appendix A: "Why We Shouldn't Drink Together But Keep Doing It Anyway")

[2] TRANSCRIPT OF INTERNAL MONOLOGUE DURING GAWON'S TOTALLY-NOT-ABOUT-YOU DESCRIPTION:

Time stamps [condensed]:

T+0: Brain initiating emergency shutdown

T+1: Wait does she mean-

T+2: No obviously not but-

T+3: "Books, writing, engineering" = coincidence???

T+4: ABORT ABORT ABORT

[System Error: Too many matching characteristics detected]

Note: Sooin's knowing look registered on the Richter scale of Oh Shit moments at approximately 9.7 out of 9.71

--

Chapter 7: Seduction and Dance

The Yamazaki bottle catches light as Sooin leads your small procession. You linger in your seat, glass tilted in contemplative circles, letting the foreign familiarity of the moment settle into your bones-in a completely different country, far from home, yet still, feeling completely at home. You spot Gawon getting up and your hand extends toward Gawon automatically-an offer of support that she declines with a gentle shake of her head, gathering empty glasses instead.

She follows Sooin's path, feet emerging from abandoned slippers. The sight of her bare feet against the floor sends electricity through your nervous system (that goddamn night).

The dance room reveals itself as Sooin's true sanctuary, her paintings relegated to margins as if she acknowledged movement's supremacy over stillness. Her explanation, "Helps my creativity, I just dance when I can't think of anything", carries the simple truth of someone who understands their own mechanisms to the tee.

The leather couch accepts your weight as you settle in to watch. "Hey creep! Are you gonna join or what?" Sooin's challenge bounces off your nonchalance. "No. What do you think I'm gonna do? Dance?" You ironically reply, which Sooin pouts at before focusing on the mirror.

Something passes between them-a conversation you're explicitly excluded from. Then the music erupts, and everything changes.

Suddenly, there was an explosion of movement, becoming something closer to possession-bodies surrendering to rhythm with religious devotion. The gap between their mastery and your stumbling attempts at grace that night becomes canyon-wide, and a thought surfaces like a bubble in champagne: had Gawon been holding back, letting you lead in a dance you barely understood?

Then she turns, and everything reorganizes itself around her gaze. Gone is the merciful dancer who obediently followed your lead-in her place stands something wilder, more dangerous. Her body writes plain and clear her intention, crop top and shorts becoming merely punctuation in a longer sentence of skin and suggestion. Every curve makes your pupils stick for an amount of time that no friend would bear for even a second[1].

Your eyes struggle to find safe harbor, but each attempted escape is met with that knowing upturn of her lips-half smile, half challenge. Her movements carry a single question, repeated in the language of muscle and grace: how could you ever resist me?

Her dance becomes your sole fixation, the path to your survival-each movement a carefully crafted assault on your composure. That waist, delicate enough for your hands to encircle completely; the clean striations of muscle beneath soft skin was just the tip of the iceberg; those endless legs that seem to rewrite the laws of physics. But it's her face that undoes you completely-the knowing triumph in her eyes as she watches your careful walls crumble to dust. By the end, you're not even pretending anymore--your gaze bounces everywhere from her legs to her midriff to her face.

They stand before you, breath heavy but victorious. "How do you even dance like that when you're drunk?" You ask, almost more breathless than them.

"Practice," Sooin laughs, "we only dance when we're not sober enough to judge ourselves."

Gawon moves closer, her presence making you consciously aware of how wired your brain was, and she says, "The place might close before we even get there." A suggestion that had double meaning: attacking Sooin's purposeful secrecy on the place, but mostly, on the suggestion that she wanted some time with you.

Sooin understands, and makes a few calls behind enough soundwalls to completely stop you from hearing.

Outside, winter bares its grizzly teeth. Each breath paints misty particles in the air, and Gawon's body instinctively seeks warmth, arms crossed against the cold. You find yourself moving without thought, arm wrapping around her frame, sharing heat through layers of fabric. She coos slightly (maybe even a little seduced?) and her gaze finds you, soft and heavy with meaning[2].

The cab car materializes from darkness like a dream-all blacked-out windows and bougie till the last detail. The interior glows with constellation-like ceiling lights, matte red seats promising discretion. A privacy screen stands ready to section off worlds.

"Hey." Her voice comes gentle as snowfall, already settling into the warmth of the seat. Your response emerges groggy, whiskey-weighted: "Mm?"

Then her hand finds yours-silk-soft and fever-warm-while another lands with dangerous precision on your thigh. Then the hand on your lap trails up to your jaw with deliberate slowness, each touch carrying immense but fabricated voltage.

"You haven't been sleeping well, have you?" Sappy little Gawon, she's back, and that was Bad. Fucking. News. Your skin hums beneath her touch, each careful stroke of her fingers against your jaw making you and her coo simultaneously.

--

[1][2] FIELD NOTES FROM THE BRINK OF SANITY: Observe how Gawon's transition from demure dance partner to architect of your destruction occurs with the precise motion of a master of their craft.

-

"When was the last time you actually slept?" Her fingers trace concern along your jawline, each touch filled to the brim with worry.

"Lately?" you reply, whiskey-honest. "Three, maybe four hours a night."

Her hand stills against your skin. "And you think that's sustainable?"

"Coffee makes anything sustainable." The attempt at levity falls flat against her genuine concern.

"I hate when you do that." Her voice carries an edge of frustration that makes your pulse quicken. "When you act like taking care of yourself is optional."

Her fingers press more insistently against your jaw, turning your face toward hers. The gesture intends examination but achieves intimacy instead. The car's dim lighting paints her in chiaroscuro, every shadow emphasizing something essential about her beauty that you've spent years pretending to avoid.

"Gawon." You let off as an abysmal warning.

"No, let me just-" Her words trail off as she studies your face, searching for signs of exhaustion, of strain. But all you can focus on is the precise architecture of her features, the way concern shapes her expression into something devastatingly beautiful, large eyes glistening with worry, her beautiful moist lips parting ever so slightly.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

The words escape before you could catch them, and you watch them land like stones onto stone. Her eyes widen, pupils expanding in the low light.

"Don't." The word emerges breathless, uncertain. "I'm not-"

Your hands find her tight waist, snaking under her coat, to her midriff and you pull her closer. She makes a surprised little noice, and those eyes widen. Her face hovers inches from yours, breath carrying traces of whiskey and possibility. That signature perfume-lilac and gooseberries-wraps around you like a spell[2].

"From now on," your voice drops lower, dangerous with intent, "your beauty isn't up for debate."

"Since when do you make the rules?" The question trembles between you, heavy with invitation.

"Since right now."

When your lips meet hers, it feels like solving an equation you've been working on for years. She yields to you with a sort of elegant surrender, each point of contact between you generating its own gravity. Her exposed skin brushes against your shirt, and the sound she makes-god, that sound carries enough voltage to power cities. Pure. Fucking. Sin.

You break away just to look at her, needing to witness this transformation. Your fingers map the sharp angle of her jaw, the soft swell of her kiss-bruised lips. Her eyes meet yours, glazed and desperate, fixed on your mouth like she's memorizing coordinates for future reference.

She chases your mouth like someone pursuing a vanishing dream, desperate to prove its reality through touch. Her hands find your face with newfound certainty-no longer the hesitant, bashful explorations of earlier but something hungrier, more insistent. When she initiates the kiss this time, years of carefully maintained distance finally collapse[1].

Your response is instinctive, grizzly-hands finding her waist to guide her onto your lap, the movement fluid despite the tight confines of the car. Each soft sound she makes rewrites something essential in your nervous system, her mewls of pleasure harmonizing with the way your grip tightens, pulls her closer, demands more.

"Tell me," you breathe between kisses, "how long?"

"Forever," she confesses against your mouth, arms wrapping around your neck like she's found anchor in a storm. "Every day, watching you rest against my thigh, I wanted-" Her voice breaks as your lips reclaim hers, swallowing the rest of her admission.

"The whiskey finally gave you courage?" The question carries no judgment, only understanding.

She nods innocently without breaking contact. "You're dangerous," you murmur, feeling her press impossibly closer in response. "Absolutely fucking dangerous."

Your teeth graze her upper lip, it was silk-soft and swollen from attention. She yields to you like warm honey in tea, mouth opening on a sigh that feels like surrender. Every point of contact between you generates its own gravity, its own heat. The taste of her-whiskey and want and Gawon-obliterates all thought of consequence[2].

When you part for breath, her eyes flutter open slowly, dark with desire but shadowed with something more complex. Her fingers twist in your shirt fabric, the gesture containing both plea and hesitation. The air between you crackles with potential energy, with words hovering just beneath speech.

"I need you," she whispers, each word carrying the weight of confession. "So fucking bad."

-

[1] yesyesyes her mouth finding mine mouthfinding minefinding yesagain like dreamchasing dreamtasting dreamswallowing all those nights counting heartbeats on marblemarblemarblewalls while she slept against lap against thigh against restraint until now nowNOW hands wandering wondering thundering yes my Gawon my GawonGawonGawon all pent up proper pushed down proper until whiskey melts marble and propriety drowns in mouth against mouth against forever

[2] softsweet honeywarm Gawonwarm the taste of her the tasteoftaste whiskeywarm lipswarm handswarming everything dissolving into GawonGawonGawon while outside winter howls its protest but inside carwarm seatwarm her pulse thrumming against fingers like morse code spelling wantwantwant or perhaps lovemaybe or perhaps bothbothboth until thinking becomes optional and consequence becomes tomorrow's problem

-

Your fingers find her cheek, brushing away a strand of hair with deliberate tenderness. "Tell me to continue." The words emerge soft, offering choice rather than demanding it.

Her response comes in the form of renewed contact-this kiss different from the others, slower but somehow more intense. A conversation conducted in the language of shared breath and gentle pressure, her hands cupping your face as if trying to memorize its topography through touch.

The driver's knock shatters the moment like a stone through glass. Reality reasserts itself with cruel efficiency as you both scramble for composure, though the evidence of what transpired remains written across Gawon's features in unmistakable script: the slight mark on her upper lip, the kiss-swollen mouth, the disaster of her usually perfect appearance. But it's her eyes that tell the true story-when they meet yours, they carry entire novels of meaning, of possibility, of things that can never be unknown.

Despite you two looking like you had engaged in the roughest play only minutes ago with clothes on, the welcome reception was glorious. And on a second view, the place looked to be about the bougiest damn place in the world.

The lobby was just as bougie, and the check-in process was quick except for one detail: the suite had one bed.

"Wait, we didn't reserve two beds?"

"Sir, there are no suites with two beds. In fact, the one that was ordered is actually the largest suite."

"So, from what I understand, this place is a bunch of detached villas?"

"Yes, and some of nature's best will refresh you for the days to come."

"Alright, well, how do we get there?" In honesty, you felt like you were talking to a robot.

"There's a complimentary cabby service, please follow me." She motioned for someone to get those small golf-type cabs, then let the two of you sit inside.

The cabby followed a winding path that showed the best views of the place; Japanese minimalist opulence on display, the trail was a perfect showcase, somehow, just for a moment, distracting you from the absolute magnisense of Gawon.

The cabby finally arrives, and you and Gawon finally enter the villa.

"Sooin really knows a spot huh?" You ask, and Gawon's eyes widen, as if she half-expected you to say something more sinister, now that you were in the confines of only two-a sort of wolf and lamb scenario.

That expectation, though, was vindicated; you softly pin her against the entrance door, pushing her up against it, letting your tongue slip into hers again-finally. By each reach of your tongue, her mewls come in equal magnitude, everytime comes a feline-like feminine sigh that leaves gooseflesh all over your arms.

There's this perfect line you have to tow with Gawon, not for her sake (really, she'd love it if you slammed her against the door and fucked her crazy right there) but entirely for your sake-you'd rapidly transition into some ayahuascan mindtrip that you'd never recover from if you allowed yourself to ravage Gawon immediately like that.

But it'd be possible if you have some linear progression: purple bruises all over her neck, then tight grasps on her thigh that leave red in its wake, then a searing redness all over her ass-cheeks; they'd all come in due time.

"Who taught you to be so good for me?" You ask, vibrating against her neck, making tight lines on her neck that'd be impossible to hide with even turtlenecks. Then before she could suppress her moans enough to get a word out, you say, "tell me, how should I punish you? You've got your dearest friend wrapped around your dearest finger."

"Dearest, I'd rather you just fuck me rather than ramble on." Gawon states, assertively, richly convincing through her honey-like voice and you obey, getting that little squeak out of her as you manhandle her, strong arming the small of her back, the other hand trying to wring out her squeals by way of squeezing her ass.

She's messy, attached to your lips-and she's trying to rip off your t-shirt, trying to find little provocations such that you'd pin her even harder against the door: to get her squealing for the entire town to hear.

"Watch it, this place is shrouded in glass," you say, but you held her even tighter, like, I need you to fucking scream like I own you.

And Gawon seemed to understand what you meant by the contradiction: gaining even more levels of lewd vocalization.

The nice thing about manhandling a supermodel is that she's light enough for you to truly manhandle her. You could swing her around the room, pin her against the couch, then mash your dick in her pussy like it was the perfect alignment of events, the singularity-if you will.

And as if you were some visionary, you swung her around the room, her legs wrapped around your waist, and she's letting her displeasure at being folly to your strength be known-though it was futile, she's hypocritically still attached to your lips.

Through some loose and messy coordination aided by her varying tonal mewls and the pain of stubbing your fucking toes a dozen times, the long couch was finally found. She sat down, waiting with not a single hint of patience; her eyes were painted with some of the clearest "fuck me" eyes; her lips were swollen, red and slightly snouted, waiting for you to get back right where you were.

You swung your jacket off, then your t-shirt, and went back into the soft embrace of Gawon. She's whispering something unintelligible, some sweet nothings as she samples your lips, wet pecks like the way she demurely tips a wine glass into her lips. Even in the genteel nature in which she wrought destruction unto you was a provocation: you latched on harder, earning delicate mewls from the soft bites you gave her swollen lips.

"Who knew you'd taste so good, hm?" You ask, your teeth accidentally bumping against hers, the space between your eye contact almost theoretical.

"I was right there, for your taking." She replies, grinning.

"What about right now?" You posit.

"I don't know, you've ignored me for so long." She replies, faking a sass.

You swiftly grasp onto her wrists, pinning them together. "Unfortunately, you're going nowhere" You say before letting your other hand wander under her croptop (where your hand is shouldn't even be up for question) and you go deep into the kiss again.

This time, she's stimulated, keening, a little sensitive lilt to her voice, as if her perky nipple was some switch that changed her tone-definitely a topic for another day, but not right now. Because what's right now is that Gawon's splayed against the couch, hair all messed up, eyes locked on to you only.

"Does this come close to the smutty books you hide under the bed?" You ask, feeling the upright urge to tease her at her most vulnerable.

She stares, dumbfounded-you're always surprised by how her eyes can always get larger.

"That's right, should I tick off what each of those books detailed onto you?" You ask, even closer to her face, nose and lips nearly touching,

But right before kissing, close enough to the point where Gawon snouted her lips-waiting for the kiss-you let off; instead, you let go of her wrrists, motioning her to take off her crop top. It's hard not to feel bad for Gawon-well, you did, but you were playing into her cards, you were the one falling into each of her traps, every single part of her wanted this, her eyes read some sinister pin-me-into-the-couch-and-fuck-me-till-I-go-crazy eyes.

And worst of all, she was a virgin-or that's what you believe. Time will tell.

"You're a big meanie," she says, crossing her arms around her chest, nailing the tonality.

You say, "supermodel, savant reader, funny, great cook, and now, actor? You're fucking unreal by the way."

"That's it?" She asks, humming with happiness.

"Oh yeah, one more thing-super fucking horny."

"Yah!"

"Am I wrong?"

"I'd appreciate some formality." She replies, getting closer to your face.

"Gawon, there's nothing formal about what you're doing."

"I disagree, I'm formally getting ready for what you're gonna give me."

"You have no idea what's coming."

"Do your worst, pretty boy."

You smile at the audacity of her nonchalance: she's rubbing her legs together at what was presumably a mess down there, and her arms are all jittery from what was presumably the greatest high of her life.

While she straddled you, you tied her hands around her back with a loose knot (with her crop top) that'd come off with the slightest pressure, but you have insurance: she loves the idea.

You press soft kisses on her collar, the parts where red bloomed like a rose in sunlight, and you slowly descend down her chest-letting off steamy sighs right on her tits that spilled out so perfectly above her bra, and you could see in real-time how the skin on areola slowly wrinkled in parallel to her soft sighs.

Then when her nipple was as hard as a pebble, you descended, and she huffs, "this is encroaching punishment, agh!" You give a soft bite right on her washboard midriff, "I'm doing what you want. Gawon."

She leaned up against the couch in some dextrous position that'd clearly hurt her back, but she's too horny to even remember that she has a body to look out for, focusing only on where your mouth went. And finally, you're kneeling on the floor, facing Gawon's core; even through her black lingerie, the wetness was obvious, it was emanating, outlined, and it smelled so fucking good-of absolute sex.

Softly, you approach her sex, and you could feel the soft heat growing and growing, and the smell too, god, you're already fucking hooked-embarassingly so.

"Stop smelling, you're being gross," Gawon says, seriously so.

And you respond by placing your face right on her pussy, just a layer of satin separating your mouth from her vulva.

Another noise level was broken by Gawon.

"You have no fucking idea," you say, nearly growling, "how amazing you smell," you say, unknowingly making her moan from the vibration.

You hook your finger around the wet satin, and you softly push it to the side. Each millimeter shows a greater pink, a greater swollen wetness. You give Gawon one last look, wholly depraved and almost drooling-and she's staring back with a demure horniness, one of her fingers transfixed on twisting her bronze-colored nipple.

Firstly, you layer a soft kiss on her wet vulva-and you could feel Gawon's breath catch right on the crux of her pussy, a small jolt. You press light kisses over her outer lips, it was swollen, it was a mess, her juices spread even around her outer lips, and it was fucking delicious. And she's jolting against every kiss, getting even more reactive to what wasn't even the main course-and the thought of stimulating her clit when she's this sensitive entertained you to no end.

"Fuck~Agh!" Her head was thrown back, and a shuffle of her long hair covered half her face-yet she still softly pressed her pussy right on your face, chasing the sensation of your tongue.

And you venture closer to her core, licking around the space between the outer fold and the inner, you could feel her arousal pooling like a hormonal soup of her greatest pleasure inside her inner folds, and you found that, each interaction with her clitoral hood, just above her swollen clit made her back jolt.

It's so painful not to shove your dick right into her wet mess, kiss her cervix with your tip a thousand times over, make her squirt all over the couch, and let her scream your name for the entire village to hear; because, you love her and you can't just shove it in there.

The spooling arousal formed some heavenly rivulet of her arousal dripping down her leg, it's like a layer of slick that glistens shinier than diamonds, and it's far more preferable.

"Please, please, please…" her voice gets mousy and whiny as you blow soft air onto her engorged clit. But you could never deny Gawon, one soft blow later, your lips latch onto her engorged clit.

And her back bends in utter pleasure instantaneously, a loud moan claims her entire body: "Agh~I'm cummminggggg…"

If only she made it less appealing to torture her pussy, then maybe there'd be some amnesty to give, yet you didn't grant anything, latching harder and circling the your thumb pad right on the opening of her vagina-in response, she's panting, unsure whether to moan or to cry, unsure whether to turn into a gymnast with her back olympics.

You softly press your thumb against the opening and your thumb enters-god, it's a small part of your thumb, but it's encircled in the softest, gummiest and wettest feeling possible. Your encircle her clitoral hood with your tongue, grazing her engorged clit ever so slightly while simultaneously inserting your thumb deeper.

And oooh god, it's a whole fucking mess-Gawon's panting, moaning, her hands were wrapped up deep in your hair, and your head felt the soft pressure of her thighs enclosing. Poor Gawon's never sweared this much before, every sigh comes with an oh fuck coupled with a jolt.

However, your empathy can only run so far while your hellbent lust stretches infinitely. Finally, some wicked progression finally half-finished, you flick your tongue against her clit. And in comes another loud moan, higher than any tone that Gawon has ever used, and her core fucking drips.

She cums for a second time. And all her pleas were dust in the air, she was victim to her own pleasure-convulsing moans that coursed through her entire body before finally sparing her the entire ordeal. And it was more intense than anything she's ever felt: sweat forming on her chest, on her forehead, thick groupings of hair stuck to her face, the rest stuck by static to the couch.

"You're a meanie." Gawon states, still panting.

You didn't reply, instead ascending from the carpet, taking view of her full body before letting her taste herself vis a vis your lips. "Do you understand me now?" You ask, and she nods, "I taste good."

Damn right.

The kiss was sweeter than expected, a reconciliation after you nearly broke her mind and a transitional period for what was next. In some smooth cycle, you now sat atop the couch and Gawon slowly crouched onto the carpet.

Her hands spread along your thigh-her cold palms leaving gooseflesh in its wake all over your thigh. But she's eyeing the prize, the large tent that's formed on your loin, "God, that looks painful," Gawon says (she has no idea).

Then there's a sinister glance coupled with a sinister upturn of the corners of her mouth-she's plotting. Softly, she approaches your appendage wrapped in linen, then presses a soft kiss right on the tip, right where you were most sensitive. One kiss later, she's wrapped her lips around the tip, and you could feel her tongue press.

It's hot, she's bunched up between your legs licking at your cock submissively, acutely aware of how you're melting under her tongue. She pressed a few more kisses before hooking her fingers over the waistband, pulling down ever so slightly.

"You're so hard." Gawon prods, in a time when you were in no mood for jokes.

"I wonder why." You joke (yeah, there's always room for Gawon though).

"I don't know-tell me." Gawon's holding you hostage, if she moved your waistband an inch lower then you'd be free from the linen prison, bound for Gawon's soft lips. But, cruelly, she's holding you prisoner.

"Just be a good girl, Gawon." You say, exasperated, staring at the ceiling, waiting impatiently.

Then suddenly you felt a wet heat enclose around your tip along with a wet mewl. You look down just to confirm, and yeah, she's wrapped her angelic lips around your cock, the way her edges of her eyes crease a frank demonstration of how happy she was, and her amateur way of brushing the top of her teeth right on your sensitivity was irritating but not enough to measure up to the pure hormonal surge that you felt.

You couldn't help but jolt along her promiscuity, and she responds accordingly, humming along your jolts, softening her strokes, tonguing at your tip, then the frenulum, then a pat on your thigh to signal her choking point.

"Those books, they can only bring you so far, Gawon." You say, wrapping her thick head of hair to prevent it from interfering.

Gawon softly releases, strands of her spit still connected to your shaft, and she grips your thighs, "I can taste your precum," she says with a smile, "I may be a virgin but you're melting under my touch."

"So that's a confirmation? That you're a virgin?"

"I mean yeah, do you wanna rupture my hymen? Which, by the way, got ruptured when I was riding a horse." She says, planting the side of her head on your thigh while grasping your cock in one hand.

"I'm glad." You huff, the pressure of her hand was pleasing.

"Possessive much? That's an ick for many girls." She tightens her grip, earning another husky groan.

But you smile, tightening your grip in her hair, "but not for you. Is it, Gawon?"

Her head tips into a soft nod, all soft and submissive for you. And before blowing you, she presses soft kisses on the inside of your thigh, grinning with mischief.

In the accumulation of it all, you were rock hard in her hands, and it was coupled with her mouth returning right on your dick (a soft sort of suction with her tongue licking the underside passionately).

She's getting faster, and you're melting. Her keen mewls hum against your shaft, her eyes lock on you the entire time; her head moves like it was a separate part of her entire body; and each push and pull of her lips comes with a different strategy.

It's hard philosophizing suffering when Gawon's sucking your dick. Mostly because you're whipped for her. And mostly because you're about your bust your cum right into Gawon's mouth, fill her stomach with hot semen intended only for lovers-you were no longer friends, this much seems obvious now. She's ruthless, inviting you to pull on her hair, inviting you to push her head in deeper for that 'deepthroat', and you could tell that she was knuckle-deep in her own pussy, moaning occasionally with your dick still inches deep in her mouth, coupled with eyes knitted in intense pleasure.

And you bite again-as usual-pushing her head in deeper on your shaft, making her softly gag against your length. You could feel rivulets of spit drip down your balls, and you could perceive her hands trying not to clamp down against the uncomfort. Such a brainfuck when Gawon loves this-finds comfort in choking on your cock.

By the tenth second (yeah, ten-second-pump-chump material), you lost to Gawon. You swiftly let go, and Gawon's kneeled back, amazed, out of breath, observing all the spit pooled along your loin. "I'm gonna cum, Gawon," you finally let out, and she immediately goes back. You were walking the plank, goaded on by the inevitable forces of lust-seeking and Gawon's fucking eyes and a myriad of other reasons that made it impossible to resist-truly.

And finally, you bust a seatrail of semen into her thoat, neverending ropes of life right down into her stomach, and she's insistent on the stare, not even caring that your dick was fully into her throat, just a little less than the deepthroat, to, you know, not fucking drown her lungs with semen (preventing pneumonia by way of cum).

Your dick slowly slivers out of her mouth, still unimaginably hard (literally impossible, but Gawon has her ways), and she tips her mouth up with all your semen still stuck to her throat, travelling down to her stomach.

"Has a weird taste," Gawon conclusively says, and you wipe off a bit of fluid stuck on her chin with your thumb, then letting her sample it.

"Same conclusion," she giggles, then pouts, "are you gonna kiss me or what? After all that hard work…"

"After a bit."

"After all that semen goes down into my stomach?"

"For lack of a better word: yes."

This intermittent time to talk is over by the time Gawon finally takes off her bra, sitting expectantly on the couch.

"I'll go find a condom, go to the bedroom, alright?" you say, caressing her chin, though some evolutionary instinct made it hard to move.

Regardless, you moved, and you found some condoms in the cupboard of the hotel-apparently, it's a love hotel; did Sooin know this?

You go back to Gawon sitting on the edge of the bed, and you relish the beauty of Gawon entirely naked in front of you. Instant hard-on. Instant surge. Whatever beastly urge was turned to the maximum.

"Put my condom on," you command, and she obliges.

She stares, mouth slightly agape, fully observing your reaction as she palms your cock, slipping the condom on. Testament to her inexperience, she didn't leave the little divot for the seed to collect, so you pull a little to create the divot-with a stupid grin on your face.

You follow her as she splays herself across the white bed. She placed herself as the canvas, you as the paint. Softly, you press kisses on her neck, feeling her thin waist, firmly grasping whatever got her breath to catch, whatever made her throat vibrate against your kisses.

She parts her legs, wrapping and locking it around your waist. As a result, your tip pressed up against her firm navel, her body had goosebumps all over, expectant and waiting. You give her one more peck, right on her lips before positioning your length right onto her heat.

She's anxious, holding your arms for reassurance as she stares at your length press against her heat. And right before you steel the courage to enter, she rambles off, "Do it, please, I love you, I can't envision a world without you and if you don't fuck me until I go crazy on your dick and you slap my ass around until it's burning with my mouth buried right into sheets and where I'm just drooling like an idiot until you bury your cock deep into my womb until you bruise my cervix and and and then give me aftercare with the both of us in the tub and the warm water is softly healing and your soft kisses on my nape while you hold me with a hug in the tub and and and we sleep together naked under the sheets while cuddling, then you fuck me again tomorrow-"

She's so cute you could die.

You give another peck on her lips, "I love you so much that I'll do anything you ask."

Gawon reverts back to her queen-like grace, "I want you to manhandle me."

Then you bury your cock deep inside, and she lets out the most intoxicatingly deep moan, everything that she stored inside of her releases in that moment, the invisible endorphins fueling your intercourse with a sort of unbreakable tenacity.

It's wet. It's disgusting. It's also the best fucking feeling in the world. You're placed on top of Gawon, she's hugging you desperately, moving her hips accordingly, softly biting your collar as she feels the cock deep inside of her, and as she requested, kissing her cervix at least a dozen times.

"Oh~ I love this so much!" Gawon rumbles under you, and it was obvious, her bottom's already covered in her juices.

"I'll make a wife out of you," you groan, pressing your cock deep against her. "I'll fuck you everyday, throw you around…She went nonverbal for a second, her bottom spasming, and you can pretty much conclude that she came again.

You latch onto her lips, while still burying your length into her swollen pussy.

"Is this your Darcy moment?[1]" You chuckle.

"This is me realizing how much I love getting fucked."

"To the point that only 'fuck' is the only way to describe it?"

"Oh god yes." She moaning through every push, then mewling against every pull.

Then you begin speeding up, the speed at which wet slaps are basically the only thing that can heard, where squirt comes into the equation. "Oh my god! It's so good!" She's pressing kisses on your chin, your jaw, everywhere, "take off the condom!"

"What?" You slow down, unsure if you misheard her.

"Take off your condom."

"But-"

You're not one to beat your urges, and she wanted it too. What the hell, sure[2].

You softly pull out of the most intense suction you've ever felt, nearly a wet pop sound, and she grabs onto the slick condom, trying a multitude of times before finally getting it off, throwing it to some corner.

This time, her eyes are completely void of apprehension, it's only lust there, pure pure 100-proof lust. And so, you insert your length into her again, that wet sound carrying even more magnitude. Her body's sticky with her sweat, and you press soft bites over her neck, sucking hickeys into existence, relishing that beautiful smell-lilac and gooseberries-mixed in with the salt of her skin.

This time, you swung her leg on your shoulder, her body now on its side, perpendicular to the bed. She let out a deep moan from the surprise, but began pushing her hips back onto you, the display of your cock entering her even more visible-it's vile and addictive.

You press kisses on her ankle as you pump faster, and her sighs grow faster, softer, and higher.

"You're so beautiful." You say, it wasn't even conscious, a completely subconscious mechanism, deep from the soul.

She smiles before her eyebrows knit in pleasure again. Somehow, still, her eyes were still locked onto you, analyzing every tidbit of your face.

However, before she's found steady ground, you throw her leg over, and she's now stomach-down on the bed. "You know exactly where this is going," you whisper, grasping her tight ass before going up to the side of her face to pepper kisses.

She's nuzzled her head against you, it's too hard to look down, to separate from her warmth, so you hope that your natural instinct finds the right hole (very bad idea, usually).

Yet you pull it off, she groans so gainfully against you, adding verbosity to compliment your strokes through the vocabulary of vocalization. And now you have easy access to her asscheeks, and before you ask her, she's already saying yes please spank me until I'm creaming.

You can feel her ass recoil from the first hit, and she yelps. Then another, she's groaning, then another, she's moaning. "You're really just a horny girl."

"You didn't figure that out from the beginning, when you found the books?" She teases, acknowledging her own depravity.

"You good for nothing-" you spank her again, "seducing your friend like this"

"Hey! Now that was a partnered effort, and by the way, it's boyfriend now, you're my boyfriend." She stares at you, smiling because you were smiling-like a moron by the way.

And you kiss her deep, doing some partnered sort of gymnastics that you'd rue the next day (because of the soreness). "How does it feel to be my girlfriend?" you ask.

"Hm, it's hot, it's kind of sore, it's kind of sticky and it smells like sex." Describing only her current self, humor never failed her.

"Technically correct, but not my intended question." So you give a soft spank, and a deep pump-and she's like a jukebox from these movements, all manners of notes.

"You're the idiot talking about technicality while balls deep inside me without a condom."

"Almost like that's the reason I'm balls deep inside you."

"Good point-Agh~!"

You're approaching your climax, and she's doing you no good, no effort to help lengthen this heavenly feeling-pumping her ass back on you, even massaging your hands that were planted in a push-up position.

"You're drooling onto the bedsheet, your lady juices are flowing onto the bed-"

"Yahh… 'lady juices' is so derogatory that I'm getting mad, and that's hard by the way, given how horny I am."

You laugh along with her, still pumping into her.

And it's in this perfect atmosphere where you and Gawon laugh, talking into vocabularies that went far beyond any friendship, when you pump your last stroke before filling her womb with your semen.

"God, imagine the consequences of this."

"Even if I do get pregnant, I wouldn't mind it," Gawon says, face planted into the mattress, her final climax seizing her body.

"You're a victim to your own hormones."

"We're two of the same," she says, still face planted, her hair entirely covering her head like a helmet, so you pull a thick strand of hair to press a kiss to her cheek.

"How would your parents react?"

"Is that why you use 'your' all the time when addressing our parents? Cause you fell in love with me?"

"Partly."

"Wow, that stretches far back." She's facing you, the answer running through her head.

"Alls well now?" you ask, the space between you enclosing fast, ending with a deep kiss.

"Mhm, and you'll have to use 'our parents' if we're married."

You giggle into her mouth, "I don't think it's that simple."

"Maybe not, but I can feel your semen flowing out, and plus, you promised after care," her eyes glistens as she looks at you.

"What the hell, sure."

-

[1] Darcy seems to be a staunchly opinionated man like you. Maybe that's why she reads Pride and Prejudice so much.

[2] Google "What the hell, sure"

-

A/N: Wow! What a ride, long stories are definitely awesome with so much more things to delve into. Let me know if you like this monthly sort of release or the biweekly, and shorter, releases. (no promises tho)

A/N 2: Gawon is literally the hottest person I've ever seen, and even her taste too (mostly the reason I was able to get 18k words out) . I heard she recommended No Longer Human which is just a phenomenal book by the way.

A/N 3: Pt 2? With whom? Maybe someone on the right of Gawon? Wink wink…

Professional Hazard (And Blue Tongues)

Karina x Male Reader

9k words

18+ smut

'I expected you to have...'

'Grey hair? Glasses thick as tank armor?' You lean back. 'Let me guess-ancient and decrepit?'

'Something like that.' She toys with her iced americano, ice cubes clinking.

'Get that more than you'd think.'

'Can't imagine why.'

'Sure you can't.'

She straightens in her chair. 'Well? Are you going to ask your questions or what?'

'Did you have something specific in mind?'

'I thought you'd at least come prepared.' The sharp edge in her voice softens, adapting. 'After that email you sent.'

'I am prepared.'

'Do you know who I am?'

'I know you're Karina. I know you agreed to fund my little Italian vacation.' You keep your voice flat, unimpressed.

She laughs, short and sharp. 'They really sent someone who knows nothing.'

'Biographers aren't exactly growing on trees these days. Most of them are busy dying off.' [1]

'That's comforting.'

'About as comforting as your enthusiastic response to my email.'

'Ah.' She smirks. 'My monument to hubris?'

'Your words, not mine.'

'Christ, you're not exactly sunshine and roses, are you?'

'If only you knew.'

'Oh, I think I do.' She leans forward. 'People like me-we're your bread and butter. Desperate enough to take the abuse just to get that book written.'

'Quick study.'

'Experience, darling.' She draws out the last word like stretched taffy.

'If immortality's what you're after, we're off to a rocky start.'

'Not even grateful for the Italian holiday?'

You meet her eyes. 'Bribery's nothing new. Don't expect it to polish your image.'

'Tough nut to crack, aren't you?'

'I have what I need.'

'Meaning?'

'Let me put this delicately: my last subject bought me a year at New York's finest.' [2]

'Fantastic.' She rattles her ice cubes harder.

'You know what I think?' She sets down her drink with deliberate care.

'Enlighten me.'

'I think you enjoy this. The whole "unimpressed biographer" act.'

You pull out your notebook, unhurried. 'That'd make a great chapter one. "Local girl psychoanalyzes writer, lives to regret it."'

'There it is again.' Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. 'Tell me, do your subjects usually last long enough for chapter two?'

'The interesting ones do.'

'And the boring ones?'

You flip open to a blank page. 'They get a lovely rejection letter.'

'Which I didn't.'

'Yet.'

She leans back, studying you. The late afternoon sun catches the edge of her glass, throwing prismatic shapes across the table. 'You really don't care that I could walk away right now.'

'The door's right there.' You click your pen. 'But we both know you won't.'

'Because?'

'Because you didn't spend three months negotiating with my publisher just to storm off over hurt feelings.'

'Maybe I just like wasting time.'

'Maybe.' You meet her gaze. 'But people who like wasting time don't usually have a dozen designer brand sponsorships.'

Something shifts in her expression-surprise, maybe, or respect. 'So you did do your homework.'

'I always do.' You position your pen over the blank page. 'Now, shall we begin with the real questions?'

'Shoot.' She shifts in her chair, the late afternoon sun warming the cafe corner we've claimed.

'Tell me about your sister.'

Her eyebrows lift slightly. 'Not starting with the obvious questions?'

'Would you prefer those?'

'No.' She smiles, genuine this time. 'She's a nurse. Like our mom.'

'Close?'

'Very. She's the only person who still calls me Jimin.' She stirs her americano. 'Probably the only person who can get away with it, too.'

'Why's that?'

'Because she knew me when I was just the quiet kid who'd rather read in corners than talk to anyone. Before all of...' She waves her hand vaguely. 'This.'

'Still prefer corners?'

'Sometimes.' She considers the question. 'There's this tiny bookstore in Seongnam. When I go home, I still visit. They have this perfect spot by the window.'

'What do you read?'

'Whatever catches my eye. Last week it was about sharks.'

You raise an eyebrow. 'Sharks?'

'Don't look so surprised.' She laughs. 'They're fascinating. Everyone thinks they know them, but they don't, not really.'

'Speaking from experience?'

She takes a long sip of her drink instead of answering.

'You don't have to do that, you know.' You set your pen down.

'Do what?'

'Deflect. Turn everything into a metaphor.'

She meets your eyes for a long moment. 'Force of habit.'

'Bad one.'

'Says the person who's been matching my deflections word for word.' A half-smile plays at her lips. 'We're quite the pair, aren't we?'

'Difference is, I'm paid to be difficult.'

'And I was raised to be.' The words slip out before she can catch them. Her fingers tighten around her glass.

You wait.

'You're good at this,' she says quietly.

'At what?'

'Making silence comfortable.' She looks out the window. 'Most people try to fill it.'

'Most people aren't trying to understand.'

She turns back to you, something shifting in her expression. 'Is that what you're trying to do? Understand?'

'Would that be so terrible?'

'No,' she says.

'Progress.' You pick up your pen again. 'Though I've just realized something deeply troubling.'

'What's that?'

'Your americano's been empty for ten minutes, and you're still pretending to drink it.'

She glances at her glass, caught. 'Method acting.'

'Ah yes, the classic "I'm too invested in this conversation to pause for a refill" performance.' You wave to catch the barista's eye. 'Oscar-worthy.'

'Says the person who hasn't touched their...' She leans forward to peek at your cup. 'What even is that?'

'Green tea.'

'Pretentious.'

'Says the person who ordered an iced americano in winter.'

'It's barely spring.'

'Case in point.'

The barista arrives with fresh drinks. Karina raises an eyebrow at your cup. 'Still green tea?'

'I'm consistent.'

'Boring.'

'Strategic.' You take a deliberate sip. 'Can't blame caffeine jitters for whatever honesty slips out.'

'Sneaky.'

'Professional.'

'Same thing.' She stirs her new drink, ice cubes clinking. 'So what's next in your strategic interrogation?'

'Thought we agreed to drop the deflection thing.'

'Old habits. Ten seconds at a time.'

'That's oddly specific.'

'It's how I learned to swim.' At your questioning look, she continues, 'Ten seconds of courage. Then you can panic all you want.'

'Does that work?'

'Got me here, didn't it?' She gestures between you two. 'Letting a stranger with a notebook and suspiciously consistent beverage choices pick apart my life.'

'You could always run.'

'To where? Croatia?' She laughs at your surprised expression. 'What? I have dreams.'

'Of Croatia specifically?'

'Of anywhere that doesn't know my name.'

'That's rather poetic for someone who just called me pretentious.'

'I contain multitudes.' She mock-bows in her seat.

'Walt Whitman now?'

'See? You're not the only one who can be insufferably well-read.'

You make a show of writing something down.

You flip to a fresh page. 'Tell me about Croatia.'

'Nothing to tell. Just a place.'

'There are plenty of places that don't know your name. Why that one?'

She traces the rim of her glass again, a habit you've started to recognize as her thinking gesture. 'Have you ever seen those old coastal towns? The ones with narrow streets and buildings that look like they're having conversations with each other?'

'Been to a few.'

'I want to get lost in one.' She looks up. 'Properly lost. No GPS, no itinerary. Just... walking until my feet decide to stop.'

'Most people want to be found.'

'Most people haven't spent years being findable.' The sharpness in her voice surprises both of you. She softens it with a smile. 'Sorry. That sounded more dramatic than intended.'

'Don't apologize. It's the first time you've stopped performing since we sat down.'

'I haven't been-' She stops. Laughs. 'Okay. Point taken.'

'Progress. Again.'

'You're keeping score?'

'Always.' You tap your notebook. 'It's kind of the whole point.'

'And how am I doing?'

'In being honest or deflecting?'

'Both.'

'You're averaging about fifty-fifty.'

'Generous scoring.'

'Strategic encouragement.'

'You're good at that.' She stretches slightly. 'Making people think they're in control of the conversation.'

'Are you not?'

'Please. We both know you've been steering this ship since you sat down.' She pauses. 'Though I will say, you're the first interviewer who hasn't asked about my routine yet.'

'Your routine?'

'You know. "What time do you wake up? What's your skincare regimen? How many hours do you practice?" That whole song and dance.'

'Would you like me to ask?'

'God no.' She grins. 'But I'm curious why you haven't.'

'Because routines are what people do. I'm more interested in who they are.'

'And who am I?'

'Still figuring that out. But I know you crack your knuckles when you're nervous.'

She stops mid-crack, caught. 'Observant.'

'Professional hazard.' You lean forward. 'Tell me something real. Not about routines or schedules or practices.'

'Like what?'

'Like what you think about at three AM when you can't sleep.'

She's quiet for a long moment. 'Sometimes I forget what my natural speaking voice sounds like.'

'What do you mean?'

'You spend so many years modulating everything-your voice, your laugh, your reactions-until one day...' She shrugs. 'One day you catch yourself using your "public" voice to order coffee at 3 AM in an empty convenience store, and you realize you can't remember what you used to sound like.'

'And that bothers you.'

'Wouldn't it bother you? Losing something that fundamental without even noticing it was gone?'

'Is that why we're here? Trying to find it again?'

'Maybe.' She smiles, but it's different now. Unpolished. 'Or maybe I'm just tired of having "public" and "private" versions of everything.'

'Including your voice.'

'Including my entire existence.'

'Right.' You snap your notebook shut. 'We're getting gelato.'

-

[1] The suspicious rate at which biographers are "dying off" has become something of an industry joke. Three prominent biographers mysteriously retired after attempting to write about a certain K-pop company's CEO. Totally not suspicious.

[2] The Plaza Hotel, to be specific. Said subject was a tech billionaire whose autobiography mysteriously never made it to print. The hotel suite, however, maintains legendary status among New York's housekeeping staff for its impressive collection of empty green tea bottles and rejection letters.

-

She blinks. 'What?'

'We're walking.' You stand, gathering your things. 'Unless you have somewhere to be?'

'Are you actually asking, or is this another strategic move?'

'Both. Neither. Whatever. Does it matter if there's gelato involved?'

A genuine laugh escapes her. 'Fair point.'

The early evening air hits your faces as you step outside. She pulls on a cap-more habit than disguise.

'Left or right?' you ask.

'You're the one who lives here.'

'Technically, I've been here three days.'

'And you already know where to get gelato?'

'First thing I do in any city. Professional secret.'

'Ah yes, the biographer's handbook. Chapter One: locate ice cream immediately.'

'Chapter Two: never reveal your sources.' You turn left. 'Unless they're wearing a questionably large cap and hiding from their own voice.'

'Low blow.' But she's grinning. 'Also, my cap is perfectly sized.'

'For what? Smuggling library books?'

'That's... oddly specific.'

'Says the person who just quoted Walt Whitman in a cafe.'

You find the gelato place tucked between a bookstore and a vintage shop. The owner, an elderly Italian woman, lights up at your approach.

'Due?' she asks.

'Sì,' you reply, then turn to Karina. 'What's your poison?'

She studies the flavors intently. 'What's the most unusual one?'

'Professional or personal answer?'

'There's a difference?'

'Professional would be something elegant. Personal...' You point to a vivid blue flavor. 'That one tastes like your childhood imaginary friend made a pact with a Smurf.'

She doesn't hesitate. 'Two scoops of that, please.'

'Really?'

'What?' She raises an eyebrow. 'Scared of a little blue tongue?'

'More scared of what my editor will say when the interview notes are stained cerulean.'

Ten minutes later, you're both leaning against a stone wall, gelato dripping in the warm evening air. Her tongue is, indeed, impressively blue.

'Yah! Why are you taking a picture?"

'Your tongue. I need photographic evidence for my editor.'

She complains, 'self-respecting people would've walked a long time ago.'

'And let me guess-'

'Correct. Take a picture if you want.'

'Pulitzer worthy.' You take another bite of your considerably more dignified pistachio. 'So tell me about the sharks.'

'You're still on that?'

'You brought up marine biology in a cafe and then mysteriously changed the subject. I'm invested now.'

'There's nothing mysterious about it.' She licks a drop of blue from her knuckle. 'I just think they're neat.'

'That's the worst deflection yet.'

'Fine.' She pushes off the wall, starting to walk. 'When I was younger, I used to think they were lonely.'

You fall into step beside her. 'Sharks?'

'Mm. Always swimming, never stopping. Everyone afraid of them.' She shrugs. 'Stupid kid logic.'

'And now?'

'Now I think they're just... misunderstood.' She grins. 'That was terrible, wasn't it? Like a bad movie line.'

'Terrible. But honest.'

'You and your honesty fetish.'

'Says the person who just admitted to emotionally relating to sharks.'

She snorts, nearly dropping her cone. 'When you put it that way-'

'Oh, I'm definitely putting it that way. It's going in the book.'

'Absolutely not.'

'Chapter title: "The Shark Whisperer". I can see it already'

She tries to hip-check you, but you dodge, protecting your gelato. 'I'm revoking your creative license.'

'Too late. The mental image of baby Jimin crying over shark documentaries is seared into my brain.'

'I did not cry over-' She stops. 'Okay, maybe once. But it was a very sad documentary.' [1]

The sun is setting now, painting the cobblestones gold. You pass a street musician playing something soft and acoustic.

'Your sister know about the sharks?'

'Of course. She bought me the books.' Her smile turns fond. 'Still does, actually. Sends them to me randomly.'

'Recent ones?'

'Last week.' She finishes her cone. 'She has... interesting timing.'

'Interesting timing?'

'Mm.' She wipes her hands on a napkin. 'Right after I told her about the interview. She sent me one about great whites. Said something about facing fears.'

'Subtle.'

'About as subtle as your interview techniques.' She eyes your notebook, still tucked away. 'Not writing anymore?'

'Memory's better when I'm walking.' You tap your temple. 'Also, harder to write about blue tongues while walking.'

'Still blue?'

'Devastatingly so.'

She sticks her tongue out at a passing window, checking her reflection. 'Oh god, it's worse than I thought.'

'Crisis?'

'Please. I once had to perform with my hair half-green because of a dye mishap. This?' She gestures to her mouth. 'This is nothing.'

'Half-green?'

'Not going in the book.'

'Already mentally drafting the chapter.'

She groans. 'I'm starting to regret this whole walking thing.'

'Because of the blackmail material or the exercise?'

'Both. Neither.' She pauses by a small fountain. 'It's just... nice.'

'Nice?'

'Yeah.' She sits on the fountain's edge. 'No schedule. No plan. Just... walking and talking and eating questionably colored gelato with a stranger who probably thinks I'm having a quarter-life crisis.'

'Are you?'

'Having a crisis or eating gelato?'

'Now who's deflecting?'

And she pauses again, caught.

She dips her fingers in the fountain water, watching the ripples. 'Maybe I just wanted one normal evening. One conversation that wasn't prepackaged and pre-approved.'

'Mission accomplished, I'd say. Your tongue is literally blue.'

That startles a laugh out of her. 'You're never letting that go, are you?'

'It's going to be a running metaphor throughout the book. Deep, meaningful parallels between blue gelato and the human condition.'

'You're terrible at your job.'

'I'm excellent at my job. I got you to walk around Rome with blue teeth.'

'Is that the measure of success?'

'For this chapter? Absolutely.'

The street lamps are starting to flicker on, and the air has that peculiar Roman evening warmth that begs for a drink.

'Know any good bars?' she asks, as if reading your mind.

'Thought you'd never ask[2]. Fair warning though-my Italian's terrible.'

'Better or worse than your interview skills?'

'Much worse. But I can order Aperol Spritz in seventeen different ways.'

'Useful life skill.'

'More useful than relating to sharks.'

She shoves your shoulder lightly. 'One more shark joke and I'm leaving.'

'No, you're not.'

'No, I'm not.' She grins. 'Lead the way, worst Italian speaker.'

You find a tiny place tucked away from the main streets. The kind tourists don't know about, with mismatched chairs and a bartender who looks old enough to have served Caesar himself.

'Due aperol spritz, per favore.' You ask.

The bartender raises an eyebrow. 'Americano? Il tuo italiano è buono!' (your Italian was… apparently… good.)

'Peggio,' you say. 'Giornalista'

('Worse. Journalist.')

He laughs, already reaching for glasses. Karina slides onto a barstool, looking around with genuine curiosity.

'He seems pretty impressed by your Italian.'

'Oh trust me-he wasn't. He just wanted to be nice. That's all. The inflections are quite easy to catch.'

'Alright, whatever you say. Giornalista-.'

You grin at her cute prod.

'How'd you find this place?' She asks; needless to say, she likes it here.

'Got lost my first night here--five years ago. It was either come in or keep pretending I knew where my hotel was.'

'And?'

'Woke up knowing exactly where my hotel was. And how to say "I'm sorry" in Italian.'

She laughs. 'That bad?'

'Let's just say there's a reason I stick to green tea now.'

The drinks arrive, vivid orange against the dark wood of the bar.

'To blue tongues,' you raise your glass.

'And bad Italian,' she clinks hers against it.

-

[1] The documentary in question was "Blue Planet II." Her sister still has the receipt for three boxes of tissues and a plush shark from the aquarium gift shop. The plush shark now sits in her studio, wearing a tiny version of her debut outfit. Her company has tried to mass-produce it twice. She's vetoed it both times.

[2] You were never this humble about your Italian until you talked to an Italian nonna. "Qui giace la dignità di un giornalista" (Here lies a journalist's dignity).

-

'Speaking of bad decisions-'

'We weren't.'

'We are now. Tell me about the green hair incident.'

'Absolutely not.' She takes another sip of her spritz. 'Some secrets I'm taking to my grave.'

'Come on. Half-green hair? There's got to be a story there.'

'There is. A great one. You're still not hearing it.'

'I'll trade you.'

'Oh?' She turns on her stool to face you fully. 'What could you possibly have that's worth my green hair story?'

'Remember when I said I learned to say sorry in Italian?'

'The plot thickens.'

'Let's just say it involved a fountain, three angry nuns, and a very patient carabinieri.'

She nearly chokes on her drink. 'You're making that up.'

'Want to bet your green hair story on it?'

'You know what?' She signals the bartender for another round. 'Fine. But if you're lying, you're buying drinks for the rest of the night.'

'Deal.'

'And no taking notes.'

'Now that's just cruel.'

'Professional hazard,' she mimics your earlier tone, then grins. 'Okay, storyteller. Dazzle me.'

The bartender sets down fresh drinks, and you lean in conspiratorially. 'So picture this: my first night in Rome, about five years ago...'

'Wait.' She holds up a hand. 'We need to establish stakes. If this story doesn't involve all three elements-fountain, nuns, and police-you're not only buying drinks, you're telling me where you actually learned to say sorry in Italian.'

'Counter-offer. If my story checks out, I get the green hair story plus whatever happened at that music show in Busan.'

Her eyes narrow. 'What music show in Busan?'

'The one you just reacted to.'

'That's... that's actually impressive.'

'Five years of professional nosiness at work. Deal?'

She clinks her glass against yours. 'Deal. Now stop stalling.'

'Right. So. Five years ago. I'd just finished an interview with this ancient countess at the bar. I mean, it's the bar. Who else gets to interview a countess at a bar? That's like crazy Bourdain-level shit right there.'

She nods along. 'Of course you did.'

'Anyway, she invited me to this wine cellar...'

'Oh no.'

'Oh yes. And mind you, I was already quite drunk. And she was very, very insistent about hospitality...'

Twenty minutes and much laughter later, you finish: '...and that's why you should never trust Google Translate to help you apologize to Italian law enforcement.'

She's wiping tears from her eyes. 'The part with the cat-'

'Hand to god. Still have the scars.'

'Okay.' She catches her breath. 'Okay, you win. That was worth it.'

'Time to pay up. Green hair. Spill.'

'Can I have one more drink first?'

'For courage?'

'So I can blame it on the drink.' She waves at the bartender. 'I still can't believe you showed those nuns your interview notes to prove you weren't a street performer.'

'Desperate times.'

'Speaking of desperate...' She takes a fortifying sip of her fresh spritz. 'Ever tried to fix green hair with grape juice?'

'No.'

'Don't.'

'There has to be more to this story than grape juice.'

'Oh, there's so much more.' She settles into her seat. 'Picture this: it's two hours before a live broadcast. I'm sitting in the makeup chair, feeling pretty good about life. You know, like that particular moment where your face just… shines. Then my stylist walks in, takes one look at my hair, and just... screams.'

'Screams?'

'Full horror movie scream. Turns out the hair dye we used was... let's say "not exactly approved by management."'

'Let me guess. DIY job?'

'Worse. My sister's friend's cousin who "totally went to beauty school."'

'Oh no.' You snort, taking a hefty drink of the remaining spritz.

'Oh yes. So there I am, one side of my head this bizarre shade of swamp-thing green, and everyone's running around like it's the end of the world.'

'Which is when someone suggested grape juice?'

'Actually, that was my idea.' She grimaces. 'I'd read somewhere that grape juice could neutralize green tones. What they failed to mention was that this works for swimming pools, not hair.' [1]

'So what happened?'

'Picture a very expensive wig, three cans of dry shampoo, and me trying to explain to the camera director why I couldn't turn my head to the left.'

'Did it work?'

'Define "work."' She takes another sip. 'If by "work" you mean "did I make it through the broadcast without anyone seeing the grape-juice-tinged disaster," then yes. If by "work" you mean "did I maintain any dignity," then absolutely not.'

'The fans never found out?'

'Oh, they did. Someone leaked a backstage photo three months later.' She grins. 'By then I'd managed to fix it. Mostly.'

'Mostly?'

'My sister still has a strand of green hair she saved. Threatens to post it whenever I don't answer her calls.'

'Effective.'

'Terrifying.' She raises her glass. 'Your turn again. What's the worst interview you've ever done?'

'Besides this one?'

She kicks your chair. 'I'm delightful and you know it.'

'You're something, all right.'

Three drinks in, and the bar's emptied enough that her laugh echoes a little too loudly. She covers her mouth, but it's too late - the old bartender shoots them an amused look.

'Sorry,' she stage-whispers.

'For what? The laugh or the fact that it just shattered three ancient Roman wine glasses?'

'Shut up.' She kicks your chair again. 'I don't always laugh like that.'

'Let me guess - there's a public laugh and a private laugh?'

'There's a whole taxonomy.' She sits up straighter, counting on her fingers. 'Interview laugh, variety show laugh, fan meeting laugh, oh-that's-not-actually-funny-but-you're-my-sunbae laugh-'

'Please tell me you're joking.'

'I wish.' She slumps forward, head on her arms. 'I once had to attend a laughing seminar.'

'A what now?'

'A laughing seminar. Professional instruction on the art of the public giggle.' Her voice is muffled against her sleeve. 'There was a PowerPoint and everything.'

'You're making this up.'

She lifts her head. 'I spent three hours learning about laugh-adjacent breathing techniques while a woman named Mrs. Kim hit a triangle every time someone laughed "inappropriately."'

You stare at her. She stares back.

'That's the most horrifying thing I've ever heard,' you say finally.

'I know.' She dissolves into another too-loud laugh, this one definitely not seminar-approved. 'God, I can still hear that triangle.'

'Is that why you're here?'

'Getting drunk with a biographer in Rome? No, that's just poor life choices.'

'Speaking honest truths to a stranger?'

'Oh.' She straightens up, but there's still something loose in her smile. 'Maybe. Or maybe I just really needed to tell someone about Mrs. Kim and her triangle of terror.'

'Triangle of terror.' You shake your head. 'That's going in the book.'

'Along with the blue tongue and green hair? You're really painting a picture here.'

'It's called character development.'

'It's called character assassination.' She signals for water. 'What else are you putting in there?'

'Wouldn't you like to know.'

'Actually, yes. That's literally why I'm asking.'

'Fine.' You pretend to flip through your mental notes. 'Chapter One: Sharks and Empathy-'

'Oh my god.'

'Chapter Two: The Grape Juice Incident-'

'I'm starting to regret everything.'

'Chapter Three: Laugh Taxonomies by Aespa's Karina-'

'I hate you.'

'Chapter Four: Why Romans Don't Trust Her With Fountains Anymore-'

'That was you! That was literally your story!'

'Was it? Everything's getting a bit fuzzy.' You tap your temple. 'Must be all that professional memory I was bragging about earlier.'

She throws an olive at you. The bartender clears his throat.

'Sorry,' you both say in unison, then look at each other and start laughing again.

'You know what's really funny?' she says, once you've both contained yourselves.

'Mrs. Kim's triangle?'

'Besides that.' She accepts the water from the bartender. 'This is probably the worst interview you've ever done.'

'Oh, definitely.'

'And yet...'

'And yet?'

'It's the most honest one I've given.' She pauses. 'God, that sounded way less cheesy in my head. Must be the spritz talking.'

'Blame it on the altitude.'

'We're at sea level.'

'Blame it on the sea level.'

'You're ridiculous.' She's grinning though. 'Is this how all your interviews go?'

'Usually there's less gelato. More gravitas.'

'Gravitas is overrated.'

'Says the woman who attended a laughing seminar.'

'Hey, I'll have you know my triangle-approved giggle is very dignified.'

'Prove it.'

She sits up straighter, arranges her features into something serene, and lets out the most artificial laugh you've ever heard. It's so pristine it's almost disturbing.

'That was horrifying.'

'That was three hours of professional training.'

'I'm concerned about your profession.'

'Join the club.' She relaxes back into her natural posture. 'We have meetings every Tuesday. Bring your own triangle.'

The bartender slides over the check with a knowing look. Last call came and went without either of you noticing.

'Well,' you say, reaching for your wallet. 'I suppose this is-'

'Wait.' She puts her hand on your arm. 'I have a confession.'

'Another one? The green hair wasn't enough?'

'I read your book.'

'Which one?'

'The one about the ballet dancer who quit to become a motorcycle mechanic.'

'Ah.' You sit back. 'And?'

'And I maybe, possibly, completely changed my mind about this whole interview when I read it.'

'Because?'

'Because...' She fidgets with her empty glass. 'You made her sound so... human.'

'As opposed to?'

'A story. A headline.' She traces a pattern on the bar top. 'Most people would've written about the scandal, the career she "threw away." But you wrote about how she names each motorcycle she fixes. How she still dances in her garage at midnight.'

'Ah. That.'

'That.' She looks up. 'Is that why you haven't asked me about any of it?'

'Any of what?'

'Don't play dumb. The headlines. The speculation. The-'

'The triangle-approved responses you've probably rehearsed?'

She laughs, caught. 'Something like that.'

'Here's the thing about headlines.' You start gathering your things. 'They're usually more interesting than the truth.'

'And what's the truth?'

'That sometimes people just want to eat blue gelato and tell embarrassing stories in a bar and talk a biographer's ears off.'

She kicks your chair again, barely noticeable. 'Even if those stories end up in a book?'

'Especially then.' You stand, offering her jacket. 'Though I might need you to sign a waiver about the grape juice incident.'

'I knew it! You are using it!'

'Chapter title: "The Perils of Amateur Chemistry: A Cautionary Tale."'

She shrugs on her jacket, shaking her head. 'You're impossible. That AI flair was so intentional'

'Says the woman who legitimately attended a laughing seminar.'

'I'm never living that down, am I?'

'Not as long as I have a functioning memory and a publishing contract.'

The Roman night is warm as you both step out of the bar. She stumbles slightly on the cobblestones.

You offer a hand which she quickly grabs.

'Don't you dare put that in the book,' she warns.

'Put what? The graceful interpretation of contemporary dance you just performed?'

'These streets are rigged.' She steadies herself. 'Also, your hotel's this way.'

'How do you know where my hotel is?' You're not exactly one to remember locations, probably the reason you were able to gain such a repository of ridiculous stories.

'Because it's my hotel.' She grins at your expression. 'What? You think you're the only one who does research?'

'I'm concerned about your stalking tendencies.'

'Says the person who somehow knew about the Busan incident.'

'Professional hazard.'

'You really need new catchphrases.'

The walk is quiet, comfortable. Rome at night feels like a different city-all golden lights and shadow play. A cat watches you pass from its perch on a window sill.

'Don't even think about it,' she says.

'About what?'

'Making some poetic comparison between me and that cat.'

'Please. I'm a much better writer than that.'

'Sure you are, shark whisperer.'

You reach the hotel entrance. She pauses.

'Well,' she says. 'This has been...'

'Professionally catastrophic?'

'I was going to say enlightening.'

'That too.'

The hotel lobby is all marble and soft lighting. Your footsteps echo slightly.

'I have a balcony,' she says suddenly. 'And a really pretentious coffee machine I can't figure out.'

'Is this a cry for help with appliances?'

'This is...' She fidgets with her room key. 'This is me not wanting the interview to end yet.'

'The interview ended somewhere between blue gelato and the triangle story.'

'Then what's this?'

'Believe or not, some people just like having fun on their Italian vacation.'

'Haha. Very funny.'

'This is...' You pretend to consider. 'Two people who might be friends if one of them wasn't writing a book about the other.'

'Complicated.'

'Professional hazard.'

'There's that phrase again.' She presses the elevator button. 'Come on. I'll teach you how to laugh properly.'

'With or without the triangle?'

She steps into the elevator. 'Depends on how good you are at making coffee.'

'Now who's the impossible one?'

The doors start to close. She holds them.

'Coming?'

You join her in the elevator. 'For the record, I'm excellent at coffee.'

'For the record,' she mimics your tone, 'that's going in the book.'

Her room is on the top floor, with a view that makes you understand why people write poetry about Rome.

'So,' she says, fighting with the coffee machine. 'This button makes it angry, and this one makes it hiss.'

'Move over, amateur.' You reach around her to press a combination of buttons. The machine purrs to life.

'Show off.' But she's smiling as she heads for the balcony. 'Bring your coffee wizardry out here when it's ready.'

The balcony is small, just enough room for two chairs and all of Rome spread out below. She's curled up in one chair, shoes off, looking more real than she has all day.

'Your professional opinion,' she says as you hand her a cup. 'Is this going to be a good book?'

'Depends.'

'On?'

'On whether you let me keep the shark metaphors.'

She laughs into her coffee. 'You're never letting that go.'

'Never.' You take the other chair. 'Though I might be willing to negotiate.'

'Terms?'

'Tell me something nobody knows. Something that won't make the book.'

She's quiet for a moment, looking out at the city lights. 'I sing in the shower.'

'Everybody knows that.'

'No, I mean...' She turns to face you. 'I sing the old songs. The ones I used to practice when I was just some kid in Bundang with a dream too big for my voice.'

'And?'

'And sometimes I still feel like her. That kid. Especially at night, in foreign hotels, when the city feels like it belongs to someone else.'

'Especially at night, in foreign hotels, when the city feels like it belongs to someone else.'

'Wow.' You let out a low whistle. 'That was incredibly profound.'

She groans, covering her face. 'I know. I'm sorry. That was straight out of a drama script.'

'I was thinking more indie movie. You know, the kind where people have deep conversations on balconies in Rome at-' you check your watch, '-one in the morning.'

'Oh god, we're living a cliché.'

'Complete with coffee and two chairs overlooking Rome.'

'Quick,' she straightens up, 'say something unprofound. Save us from ourselves.'

'My tongue is still kind of blue.'

She peeks at you over her coffee cup. 'Mine too.'

'Better?'

'Much better.' She slouches back in her chair. 'Though now I'm thinking about how this would look in your book. "Two idiots with blue tongues have existential crisis on expensive balcony."'

'Don't forget the part where one of them somehow charmed a coffee machine.'

'And the other one used to sing in her shower.'

'Still,' you correct. 'Present tense.'

'Still,' she admits. 'But if you put that in your book, I'll have to tell everyone about your fountain incident.'

'Mutually assured destruction. I like it.'

She yawns, then looks embarrassed. 'Sorry. It's not the company, it's-'

'The five Aperol Spritzes?'

'That. And the emotional toll of remembering Mrs. Kim's triangle.'

'Tragic backstory,' you nod solemnly. 'Very character-building.'

'Speaking of character-building...' She sets down her empty cup, turns to face you fully. 'This is usually the part in your books where something significant happens.'

'Is it?'

'Mm. Chapter twelve. Always a turning point.'

'You really did read my books.'

'I told you that already.' She's closer now, somehow. 'What I didn't mention was that I figured out your pattern.'

'My pattern?'

'The way you write moments like this.' Her voice is soft. 'When everything gets quiet, and the city's just background noise, and someone's about to do something...'

'Inadvisable?'

'I was going to say brave.'

'Brave is just inadvisable with better PR.'

She laughs, barely a whisper. 'You're deflecting again.'

'Professional-'

'If you say "hazard" right now,' she cuts in, 'I'm going to throw you off this balcony.'

'That would be...'

'Inadvisable?'

'I was going to say "terrible for my book sales."'

She's definitely closer now. 'Your book sales are about to be the least of your problems.'

'Because you're going to kiss me or throw me off the balcony?'

'I haven't decided yet.'

'Well,' you murmur, 'for what it's worth, one of those options would make a much better chapter twelve.'

She closes the distance between you, smiling against your lips. 'Professional hazard.'

You and Karina shared an instant spark that neither of you had experienced. Ever. The moment that first tease left your mouth, it was over.

-

[1] The sentiment of grape juice being able to eliminate green tones turned out to be completely unfounded. Despite this, wine sommeliers around the world have complained about Koreans with their distinct accent asking about grape juice's ability to change colors.

-

The kiss tastes like coffee and Aperol and something sweet-probably the remnants of that ridiculous blue gelato. It's soft and quiet and perfect, the kind of moment that would sound made up in a book.

She pulls back slightly. 'Your editor's going to hate this.'

'Definitely.' You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. 'Completely unprofessional.'

'Thoroughly inadvisable.'

'Absolutely perfect for chapter twelve.'

She kisses you again, and Rome keeps existing below, indifferent to your small moment of magic. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimes twice.

'You know,' she whispers, 'this is usually where you'd write something profound about the city of love.'

'That's Paris.'

'Now who's deflecting?'

'Still you. But I'm starting not to mind.'

She laughs, soft and real-definitely not triangle-approved-and rests her forehead against yours, your breaths intermixing, plenty of intimate eye contact. 'Is this going in the book?'

'What do you think?'

'I think...' Her fingers find yours. 'I think some stories we get to keep for ourselves.'

'I think some stories we get to keep for ourselves.'

'Even after I charmed your coffee machine? That's cold.'

She makes a face. 'You're really bringing up coffee machine prowess right after-'

'Right after you thoroughly compromised my journalistic integrity? Yes.'

'Your journalistic integrity was compromised the moment you let me eat blue gelato.'

'My journalistic integrity was compromised the moment I saw you.' You run your thumb across her knuckles.

Her eye contact wavers and her voice falters, 'Gosh, you're such a player.'

'Flirting has never come so easily before.' You whisper against her mouth.

'Oh really?'

'Obviously.'

'Which was?'

'Stare at that blue tongue some more.''

She shoves you lightly. 'You're terrible.'

'And yet.'

'And yet.' She settles on your lap, the forehead to forehead more natural now. 'So what happens now?'

'Well, traditionally, this is where I'd write something about dawn breaking over the eternal city-'

'Please don't.'

'-with golden light catching on ancient stones-'

'I'm begging you to stop.'

'-as two souls find each other under the Roman sky-'

She claps a hand over your mouth. 'I will literally pay you to not finish that sentence.'

You kiss her palm before she pulls it away. 'Isn't that technically bribery?'

'Add it to the list. Right after "compromised journalistic integrity" and "suspicious coffee machine expertise."'

'Speaking of compromising situations...' You glance at your watch. 'It's almost three AM.'

'Worried about your reputation?'

'Worried about your triangle-approved schedule.'

'Bold of you to assume I ever sleep.' She stands, stretching. 'Want to order terrible room service and you can tell me about all the other journalists you've scandalized?'

'That's a very short list. Very enticing regardless.'

'Good.' She holds out her hand.

The night air has turned cooler, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from somewhere below. Her fingers trace the collar of your shirt, hesitant but deliberate.

'What happened to room service?' you murmur.

'It can wait.' Her eyes meet yours, playful but wanting. 'I'm conducting my own interview first.'

This kiss is different from the first. Slower, more certain. The city hums below, a distant lullaby of late-night cars and echoing footsteps. When she sighs into the kiss, it's the softest sound you've ever heard. When she falters against your forceful touches, it's the softest you've ever felt a woman.

She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against yours. Her heartbeat is quick under your palm.

'Better than chapter twelve?' she whispers.

You catch her lips again in answer, feeling her smile. The wind stirs her hair, sending strands brushing against your cheek. Everything smells like jasmine and coffee and her perfume-something subtle and expensive that you'll probably spend the rest of your life over-romanticizing.

Because that's what Karina deserves.

Rome stretches out endless and ancient around you, but all you can focus on is how perfectly she fits against you, how real she feels away from cameras and crowds.

Your lips find hers in the dark, soft and certain now. Her fingers trail up your neck, threading through your hair, pulling you closer. There's an art to the way she kisses-deliberate yet desperate, like she's trying to memorize the moment. Your hands settle at her waist, and she makes a small sound that you know you'll remember forever.

Her lips part against yours, deepening the kiss until you're both breathless. The balcony railing presses into your back-when did that happen?-and her body is warm against yours, fitting perfectly in all the spaces between.

Her teeth graze your bottom lip, teasing. You respond by trailing kisses along her jaw, feeling her pulse jump under your lips. When you find that sensitive spot just below her ear, her sharp intake of breath makes you smile against her skin.

She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. Her lips are slightly swollen, her careful composure beautifully undone--hair spread everywhere, but just so that she looks ethereal rather than messy. You brush your thumb across her lower lip, and she catches it with her teeth, playful even now.

'Still planning to put this in chapter twelve?' she whispers, breathless.

Your answer gets lost somewhere between her lips and… her lips.

Her laugh vibrates against your lips when you finally break apart. 'We should probably-'

'Go inside?' Your lips find the curve of her neck again.

'I was going to say breathe.' But her head tilts back, giving you better access. Her pulse flutters under your kiss like a trapped bird. 'Though inside works too.'

You pull back just enough to look at her. Hair mussed, eyes bright, that perfect composure completely undone. She's never looked more beautiful than she does right now, with the city lights catching in her eyes and her professional smile nowhere to be found.

'What?' she asks, suddenly self-conscious.

'Just thinking.'

'About?'

'How this definitely isn't going in the book.'

Her smile turns mischievous. 'No?' Her fingers trace patterns on your chest. 'Not even a little mention of how you completely forgot about journalistic integrity the moment I-'

'Then chapter 12 would entirely consist of me betraying my profession in order to catch your lips with my teeth.'

'Wow. You're bad. Like, real bad.'

'You have no idea.'

You cut her off with another kiss, swallowing her laugh. Her hands slide up your chest, around your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. The world narrows to just this: her lips on yours, her body pressed against you, the soft sounds she makes when you run your fingers down her spine.

'Inside,' she murmurs against your mouth. 'Before we really give Rome something to talk about.'

You let her lead you through the balcony doors, both of you stumbling slightly, unwilling to break contact. She tastes like promises now, like stories yet to be written. Her hands are everywhere-your hair, your chest, your face - like she's trying to read you by touch alone.

'Wait,' you manage, as her lips find that spot below your ear that makes thinking difficult. 'What about-'

'If you mention room service right now,' she warns, 'I'm going back to my original plan of throwing you off the balcony.'

'I was going to say 'what about your triangle-approved image?''

She pulls back, eyes dancing. 'Oh, that?' Her lips brush yours, teasing. 'I think we thoroughly compromised that at the first meeting.'

"Professional hazard?"

"Shut up," she whispers, and kisses you again.

She sighs into your mouth, a soft, vulnerable sound that makes your heart stutter.

Her fingers tangle in your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp, sending shivers down your spine. You walk her backward until she's pressed against the wall, her body arching into yours.

You trail kisses down her neck, learning her- the spot beneath her jaw that makes her gasp, the curve where neck meets shoulder that makes her fingers tighten in your hair. Her pulse races under your lips, a rapid drumbeat that matches your own. When you find a particularly sensitive spot, her sharp intake of breath is the sweetest sound you've ever heard.

She tugs you back up to her mouth, kissing you like she's trying to tell you something words can't capture. Her lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. One of her legs hooks around yours, pulling you even closer, and you groan into her mouth.

Her hands frame your face now, thumbs stroking your cheeks as she kisses you deeper, slower, like she's trying to memorize every second. You respond in kind, pouring everything you can't say into the kiss-how beautiful she is like this, how real, how perfectly she fits against you.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen. You rest your forehead against hers, sharing the same air, neither of you willing to move away.

"Still thinking about the book?" she murmurs, voice husky.

You answer by catching her lower lip between your teeth, gentle but playful, and feel her smile against your mouth.

Her smile against your mouth turns into a soft laugh. "I'll take that as a no."

'Take it as whatever you want.' Your lips find her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. 'I stopped thinking about the book long ago.'

She hums contentedly, her fingers tracing patterns on the nape of your neck. 'Good.' Her other hand is still tangled in your shirt, keeping you close. 'Because I have a confession.'

'Another one?'

Instead of answering, she kisses you again, slow and deep. Her tongue traces your lower lip, and you respond by pressing her further into the wall, swallowing the small sound she makes. One of her legs is still hooked around yours, and when she shifts slightly, the new angle makes you both gasp.

'That wasn't a confession,' you murmur against her lips.

'No?' Her teeth graze your earlobe. 'I thought I was being pretty clear.'

Your hands slide to her waist, steadying her. She's intoxicating like this, all careful control abandoned, her public persona nowhere to be found.

'Jimin,' you breathe, and feel her shiver at the sound of her real name.

Her response is to pull you closer, kissing you like she's trying to say everything without words. Her lips are soft but certain against yours, and you lose yourself in the feeling-the warmth of her body, the subtle scent of her perfume.

The city continues its nighttime symphony outside, but in here, the only sound is your shared breathing and the soft, desperate noises she makes when you find that sensitive spot on her neck again.

She pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. In the dim light, her gaze is soft, unguarded. Her thumb traces your lower lip.

'What?' you ask, voice rough.

'I'm trying to decide something.'

"Whether to throw me off the balcony? Because I thought we moved past-"

She cuts you off with another kiss. Her hands cup your face, holding you there as she explores your mouth with a thoroughness that makes you dizzy. You respond by feeling her firm and perky ass.

'No-,' she moans when you break apart for air. 'I'm trying to decide if this is real.'

Instead of answering, you trail kisses down her neck, feeling her pulse jump under your lips. Her head falls back against the wall, giving you better access. When you reach her collarbone, she makes a sound that's half-sigh, half-moan.

'Feels real enough,' you murmur against her skin.

Her laugh is breathy, unsteady. 'I meant-' She gasps as you find a particularly sensitive spot. 'I meant this. Us. This whole night.'

You lift your head to look at her. Her lips are swollen from kissing, her carefully styled hair a mess from your fingers. She's never looked more beautiful.

'If you think I did all of this for the fun of it, you're clearly missing something.'

'A gear in the head?'

'Definitely-'

'Gosh, how do I allow this sort of petulance?'

'Because it's me.'

'You're a player.'

'Only for you.' You catch her lips, even more wanting-and she forfeits it all.

You pick her up, mussing up her perfect outfit, mussing up her perfect lips. And you finally throw her against the bed.

'You're really roughing up Prada's global ambassador.'

'And ambassador to a dozen other brands worth billions-couldn't care less.''

She smirks, and her arms open, waiting, pliant, obedient.

You rip off your buttoned shirt, tear off your pants; now, there's truly no way of going back.

'Wow. That scar is a lot larger than I imagined.' She's referring back to the scar that you received during that drunk haze of a night.

'It was dark. Might've even been a lion.'

'Mm. Heroic. Come here.'

Now, who could ever resist that?

You rip off her clothes, each layer even more decadent than the other. And then, she was there. bra barely containing her breasts, and a layer of dampness along her sexy panties.

'That was expensive, by the way.'

'I've got a payment plan on course.'

'Mm. Enlighten me.'

You pull her panties to the side.

She's dripping wet, nectar spooling right on her pink core. A glorious sheen that makes you stare far longer than you should've. She's red-faced at this point, and her forearms cover most of her sight, and yet, she doesn't move, doesn't retreat.

The first lick you place, just a brush against her engorged clit, crumbles every self-regulated triangle-approved behavior she has. Two pants turn fifty, one lick crumbles everything. Her hips coax you in ways gymnasts can't even replicate, and of course, you oblige.

Soft licks, teases around her outer lips, swollen from all the anticipation and arousal; tonguing at her inner lips, just at the crux of her clit, gets her screaming in ways her deep voice would never register; and above all, she's orgasming, squirting, losing every pretense in favor of her built up lust.

'Oh~fuck-'

Her fingers find purchase in your hair, and she softly pulls you in-rides your face like it was all that she ever desired: her eternal wish.

'Ohmygod! Imcumming!' Her voice turns mousy, and her pupils go back in pure pleasure, coupled with hip movements thought impossible: this was the greatest pleasure of her life.

You grab her chin, squeeze softly, her cheeks molding to your grasp, and you press a soft kiss right on her kiss-bruised lips. You let her taste herself on your tongue.

'Good. Right?'

And she nods. A complete personality switch from the playfulness she displayed earlier. Delicate.

Her hands land on your boxers as she melted into your kiss. Once you felt her palm your cock, you groaned right in her ear. She starts softly, stroking. But her strokes grow more all-encompassing as you press harder into the kiss.

'Fuck. You're so good for me.'

She mewls back, on the gradient slide of unadulterated pleasure.

Softly, you release your shaft from the boxer. And you press your cock right on her core. Feeling the wet heat, the sticky nectar that pooled to a mindbreaking degree.

'It goes without saying.'

'That I'm head over heels for you?'

You grin, 'Well, that too, but you're hopeless.'

'Maybe if we weren't so compatible.'

You grab a breast, palming it, 'Well that, that too, goes without saying.'

She smiles, so warmly, every trace of everything else melted off her face--the sort of smile you'd never forget, and the sort of smile you'd want to wake up to… forever.

Finally, you press into her, and her wet heat envelops you, enough to make you groan, enough to make her moan like there's no greater pleasure--because really, there's nothing else.

Her pussy clings onto you, a wet suction that is immeasurably soft and yet, a vacuum-seal-like tightness that gets you groaning after every thrust.

Her arms cling to you, and her eyebrows knit, her small face full of emotion-all of it processing how good you fuck her.

'Oh god. Would it be bad that I want you to declare to the world that you own me?"

'Chapter 12-'

She cuts you off, 'Something along the lines of: "Chapter 12: Karina is my fuckslut"'

'I don't tolerate Karina disrespect.' You say, truthfully.

'Even if it's by myself?'

'Especially for that case, sweetheart.'

'Oh… you're too good.'

'You're blind.'

Most popular idol in the world, and… she's hopelessly down bad for you.

'If I'm blind. Then you don't have eyes-complete darkness.'

'We're two of the same.'

'I'm your biggest fan.'

'We're two of the same.'

'I love you.'

'You have a way with words, Karina.' You reply, pressing soft kisses along her jaw, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, thrusting into her harder, sharing breaths.

'You've inspired me.'

And you lock lips with her, the thrusts were becoming a blur, and her moans music to your ears-it was all just… heaven.

There was no technique. Nothing too purposeful. It was all just pure affection, pure love guiding all your actions. And the fact that she's cumming again was no coincidence.

'Oh. My. Fucking. God!' Her head goes back deep into the pillow and you follow suit. Pressing soft kisses that covered every square centimeter of her beauty, kisses that made her giggle even in her most orgasmic moment of her life.

'If I knew anything that felt like this… I'd be doing it constantly.'

'Well-'

'That's right,' Karina gives a soft peck, 'I have you now.'

You could feel her heartbeat, her skin precipitate, and her cunt pulse-it's just heaven at this point.

'Are you trying to convince me to follow you?'

'2 years, finest in New York.'

'Deal. Though you overbid a little.'

'Meaning?'

'Means anything you want, dear.'

The soft slick of her cunt made it nearly frictionless, just pure pleasure for both parties. Her hips gave way every time, an identity of its own, retreating when you thrust too hard, giving in when softer.'

'Is this like a sugar mommy situation?'

'Two words I never expected you to say.' You both share a laugh.

'I mean that's what it is right?'

'A power imbalance? Please. I can get you to buy a New York penthouse for me at this point.'

'Well. You're right. But-'

You bring your cock to the hilt inside of her, whilst stealing her lips for a deep kiss. She moans and mewls and gasps-music to your ears. You change positions. You bring her legs to your shoulders, and you begin kissing along her ankle while thrusting inside of her.

This time, you can see the full view. How her breasts bounce against the thrusts, how her slick has completely covered your entire length at this point, and how beautifully her face is framed between it all.

Her mouth's agape, moaning, giggling intermittently with the jokes shared through eye contact. You bite softly at her ankle then down her legs, to her calves, then releasing her legs altogether to kiss her again.

She fits perfectly against you, small and delicate but the perfect puzzle piece under you. She's absorbent, aware of your needs, placing soft kisses along the ridges of your eyebrows, rubbing away the day's fatigue along your jaw and temple.

'I love you.'

'I love you too.'

'I didn't hear.'

You press against her, feeling her breasts spool against your chest, bring your thrust to the hilt, the wetness of her loins pressed against yours, all of them vividly apparent. 'I love your beauty. I love your humor. I love how clever you are. I love how authentic you are. And I could continue on and on but I'm about to cum.'

Karina sniffled, 'God, I was about to cry and then you say that.' She softly smacks your shoulder, 'just cum inside me and let's cuddle.'

You oblige, the thrusts turn into a haze of pure pleasure, a desperate moment chasing the local maxima, and finally, you burst inside of her. Cum spooled, all inside her, and she moans so gracefully, staring at you with all the affection in the world.

'We can worry about this tomorrow.' She palmed your jaw.

'Of course.' You fall onto her, cuddling her.

Both of you are a mess, gross, bodily fluids spread everywhere, and yet, the both of you fell into a deep slumber.

A/N: I'd like to apologize for switching up styles so much (But if you enjoyed this dialogue-heavy work, then lmk!)